Tale   of  the 


J^indy  J^o 

Tale  of  the  <3&ountains 


Marie  £.  Hoffman 


'Boston 


(Company 


MDCCCCXX 


COPYRIGHT-  I  Q20 
BY  MARSHALL  JONES  COMPANY 


THE     PLIMPTON     PRESS'NORWOOD-MASS'U'S-A 


To 

MY   HUSBAND 
DR.  CARL  HOFFMAN 


2136252 


J^Jndy 


Tale  of  the 


CHAPTER     I 

UPON  the  edge  of  a  giant  cliff,  her  face  turned 
to    the    cool    breeze    from    off   the   rushing, 
tumbling  water,  a  young  girl  lay  motionless ; 
the  dull  linsey-woolsey  of  her  clothing  so  perfectly 
a  part  of  her  environment  as  to  render  her  unseen 
by  the  casual  glance. 

Just  at  this  point  the  mountain  stream  racing 
madly  between  rugged  boulders  dropped  sheer  to  the 
depth  below. 

Mingling  with  the  roar  of  the  water  came  the  mul- 
titudinous voice  of  the  woods :  the  song  of  bird  and 
bee ;  the  cricket's  chirp ;  the  shrill,  wearisome  reitera- 
tion of  the  cicada;  the  plaintive  cry  of  the  tree- 
frog.  From  the  near  distance  came  the  call  of  the 
shy  partridge;  nearby,  a  family  of  woodchucks 
played  merrily  about  a  big  rock  upon  which  their 
mother  lay  stretched. 

No  slightest  suggestion  of  need  for  thought  as  to 
1 


2  LINDY  LOYD 

her  surroundings  was  evidenced  by  the  girlish  figure 
upon  the  cliff ;  yet  both  eye  and  ear  were  keenly  upon 
the  alert. 

Presently  the  breeze  brought  to  the  girl  the  sound 
of  a  loosened  stone  as  it  plunged  down  the  mountain- 
side, followed  by  a  far-away  bird-note  of  alarm, 
repeated  immediately  nearer  by  and  yet  nearer. 
At  once  every  timid  wood-dweller  sought  cover. 
Mother  Partridge,  softly  calling  her  chicks  to  her 
side,  melted  quietly  into  the  underbrush.  Mrs. 
Woodchuck  and  all  the  little  'chucks  vanished  under 
the  big  rock;  even  the  tiny  frog  ceased  his  cry  and 
flattened  his  small  body  against  the  tree. 

Slightly  shifting  her  position,  the  girl  remained 
quiet  and  tense  upon  the  cliff,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
distance.  As  she  watched,  a  solitary  man  crept 
stealthily  out  into  the  open  and  crossed  the  brook. 
He  was  followed  by  another  and  yet  another.  All 
were  armed. 

"Revenues !"  she  whispered.  Sliding  quietly  from 
the  rock  she  disappeared  up  the  stream.  Springing 
lightly  from  stone  to  stone,  wading,  running,  she 
pursued  her  way  directly  up  the  bed  of  the  brook 
and  finally  reached  a  giant  boulder  in  mid-stream; 
pausing,  she  sent  forth  her  voice  in  the  tremulous 
"Ah-oo"  of  the  screech-owl. 

Three  times  the  plaintive  cry,  so  weighted  with 
misery,  floated  out  and  with  so  lifelike  an  effect  that 
a  sleepy  old  owl  near  by  responded  with  a  drowsy 


LINDY  LOYD  3 

"Whoo-hoo-hoo,"  before  settling  comfortably  to  his 
slumbers. 

Immediately,  clear  and  distinct,  came  the  reply: 
"Ah-oo,  —  ah-oo,  —  ah-oo  —  Having  accom- 

plished her  purpose  the  girl  went  on  down  the 
mountain. 

Lindy  Loyd  was  the  daughter  of  a  "moonshiner" 
and  it  was  to  her  father's  hidden  "still"  up  the  brook 
her  flying  steps  had  been  directed.  Quick  to  act, 
keen  of  ear  and  eye  as  any  wild  thing  of  the  forest 
and  in  perfect  sympathy  with  the  moonshiner's  be- 
lief in  his  God-given  right  to  wring  from  his  barren 
soil  any  sustenance  whatsoever,  Lindy  had,  ere  this, 
rendered  frequent  and  valuable  service  in  protecting 
her  father's  illicit  business;  enjoying,  with  him,  the 
outwitting  of  the  officers  of  the  law. 

The  day  was  warm  and  the  girl's  sun-bonnet, 
swinging  from  her  shoulder,  exposed  a  wealth  of 
lustrous,  dark  hair  and  a  face  suggestive  of  Spanish 
or  gipsy  origin,  with  its  dark  eyes,  warm  coloring 
and  heavy  brows ;  a  face  like  a  flower  in  purity  of 
tint,  its  freshness  and  beauty  of  youth;  a  type  fre- 
quently to  be  found  upon  the  mountains ;  like  a  flower, 
too,  alas,  in  the  duration  of  its  loveliness.  But  the 
crowning  charm  of  Lindy's  face  was  her  eyes  which 
looked  forth  upon  life  with  a  gaze  peculiarly  clear 
and  direct.  Reared  in  the  truth-compelling  silence  of 
the  mountains,  confronted  daily  with  the  hard  facts 
of  life  —  facts  stripped  of  all  artificiality  —  she  was 


4  LINDY  LOYD 

straightforward  and  unafraid;  and  though  bare  of 
foot  and  clad  in  the  customary  homespun,  yet  was 
there  a  certain  grace  of  bearing  —  an  undefinable 
charm  about  the  mountain-girl. 

While  Lindy  was  making  her  way  down  the  moun- 
tain, matters  were  taking  a  livelier  turn  up  the  brook. 

The  moonshiner,  always  on  the  elert  for  surprises, 
is  seldom  taken  completely  unawares  and  given  ever 
so  short  a  notice  is,  usually,  found  equal  to  the  oc- 
casion. Pouring  water  upon  the  smoking  embers, 
Dimitri  Loyd  hurriedly  secreted  both  "copper"  and 
worm;  then,  seizing  his  gun,  considered  a  very  nec- 
essary adjunct  in  the  business,  he  dropped  softly 
down  behind  a  rock  to  await  developments,  prepared 
for  what  he  believed  to  be  a  defense  of  his  rights,  and, 
incidentally,  of  himself  also. 

"Kem  on  —  damn  ye,"  he  muttered  fiercely,  peer- 
ing over  the  sights  of  his  gun. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait.  Soon  an  incautious 
tread,  a  smothered  curse,  announced  the  approach 
of  the  enemy. 

Scanning  each  step  of  the  way  for  any  indication 
of  illicit  distilling,  sniffing  the  air  for  the  betraying 
whiff,  the  revenues  crept  on  up  the  mountain,  passing 
so  near  their  quarry  indeed,  that  but  a  breath,  a 
move,  would  have  betrayed  him. 

But  motionless  as  a  stone  —  hands  upon  his 
weapon  —  eyes  smouldering  —  the  man  behind  the 
rock  watched  the  officers  steal  by.  Not  until  they 


LINDY  LOYD  5 

were  out  of  sight  did  he  relax  his  hostile  attitude. 

"Yah,  yah — "  he  gibed,  "an'  I  wuz  right  there !  — 
right  there!"  Throwing  back  his  head  he  indulged 
in  silent,  derisive  laughter.  "But 't  wuz  a  close  shave 
— damn  'em,"  he  added,  bitterly. 

Collecting  his  "mash-pails,"  Dimitri  Loyd  went  his 
way  down  the  mountain,  he,  too,  following  the  bed 
of  the  brook. 


CHAPTER     II 

NOW,  Daddy,  tell  me,"  began  Lindy,  as  she 
dropped  down  on  the  step  beside  her  father. 
The  day  was  over  and  her  father,  coat  re- 
moved and  pipe  in  his  mouth,  sat  comfortably  tilted 
in  his  accustomed  corner  of  the  porch. 

"Ain't  much  to  tell  - —  this  time"  he  added  with 
quiet  significance. 

"Them  revenoors  will  get  ye  yet,  Mitry  Loyd," 
warned  Aunt  Joan,  from  the  doorway. 

And  the  bitter,  ancient  feud  burst  forth :  "Damned 
revenoors  — "  gesticulating  with  clenched  fist  — 
"a-sneakin'  an'  a-snoopin'  —  I'll  —  " 

"Don't  Daddy  —  don't"  —  soothed  the  girl,  her 
soft  cheek  on  his. 

"Dimitri  Loyd  —  air  you-uns  a-pinin'  to  have 
blood  upon  yer  soul?"  sternly  demanded  Joan. 

"Well,  Joan,  I  wuz  just  a-waitin',"  was  the  grim 
response. 

Shortly  before  Lindy's  birth,  Dimitri  Loyd  (com- 
monly called  Mitry)  had  drifted  into  the  Tennessee 
Mountains,  locating  where  now  the  little  family  had 
their  home.  Rumor  declared  them  to  be  wanderers 
upon  the  face  of  the  earth  and  hinted  a  strain  of 

6 


gipsy  blood,  but  no  one  ventured  to  demand  the 
truth  of  the  matter. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  birth  of  the  little  girl  and  the 
consequent  death  of  his  wife  —  it  might  have  been 
advancing  years  that  quieted  Mitry's  inclination  to 
rove  —  whatever  the  cause,  he  remained  permanently 
upon  the  mountain  and  found  in  the  new  experience 
of  fatherhood  ever  increasing  solace. 

Rugged  in  character,  resolute,  uncompromising, 
he  had  won  a  place  among  the  mountaineers  by  the 
sheer  force  of  his  personality,  and  in  his  hazardous 
employment  of  moonshining,  which  appealed  espe- 
cially to  his  type  of  character,  had  secured  life  and 
stimulus. 

Persistent,  shrewd,  far-seeing,  utilizing  his  meager 
opportunities  to  the  best  advantage,  Mitry  patiently 
cleared  and  tilled  his  lease  of  land,  becoming  in  time 
its  owner.  In  due  course  followed  added  stock,  bet- 
ter buildings  and  more  comforts,  generally.  His 
prohibited  business  also  proving  a  source  of  income, 
he  attained  to  a  fair  degree  of  worldly  prosperity. 

Silence  reigned  upon  the  cabin  porch  after  Dimitri 
Loyd's  outburst,  each  soul  impressed  according  to 
its  wont  by  the  possibilities  suggested. 

"Them  durned  revenoors  war  out  after  somebody," 
presently  remarked  Mitry.  "I  wish  —  " 

"Yes,  but  don't  let  them  get  you,"  interrupted 
Lindy. 

"I  won't"  —  significantly ;  and  again  silence  fell. 


8  LINDY  LOYD 

The  darkness  deepened  and  from  the  earth  arose 
the  spicy  odor,  the  incomparable  fragrance  of  the 
mountain.  Mingled  with  its  dewy  freshness  came 
the  voices  of  the  night:  the  frog's  steady  booming; 
the  dismal  hoot  of  the  owl;  from  time  to  time  the 
lone,  sad  call  of  the  whippoorwill ;  occasionally  a 
querulous  bird-note.  Frequently  a  strain  of  melody, 
an  echoing  laugh  or  a  call  from  some  neighboring 
home  was  carried  on  the  breeze ;  and  presently,  faint 
and  shadowy,  a  figure  loomed  in  the  distance. 

"Hass  Hicks,"  quietly  remarked  Lindy. 

"Huh !"  grunted  Mitry. 

"Been  down  to  Dark  Holler,  I  reckon,"  commented 
Joan. 

"Been  a-hangin'  'round  somewhere,"  muttered 
Mitry. 

"I  wonder,  mebbe  hit's  time  for  the  hotel  to  open 
up,"  went  on  Joan. 

"Howdy,  Hass,"  called  the  girl  as  the  figure  drew 
near.  "When  does  the  hotel  open?" 

"Reckon  hit  be  open  now,"  responded  the  man, 
pausing  to  lean  upon  the  fence. 

"Heern  tell  anything,  Hass,  down  in  Dark  Hol- 
ler?" queried  Joan. 

"Heern  tell  how  them  fool  revenoors  wuz  a-layin' 
for  you-uns  this  mornin',  Mitry,"  was  the  reply. 
"Hite  Cronce,  he  'lowed  them  fellers  went  on  over 
the  mountin'.  Wish  I'd  a-been  there,"  he  added, 
regretfully. 


LINDY  LOYD  9 

"Well,  an'  why  wuzn't  ye  there?"  Mitry  demanded. 
But  Hass  swung  off  in  the  darkness. 

Harrison  (or  Hass)  Hicks  was  a  partner  with 
Mitry  in  raoonshining.  He  and  his  mother  were  the 
Loyd's  nearest  neighbors  and  lived  but  a  short  dis- 
tance farther  up  the  trail.  Hass  was  a  wild,  tem- 
pestuous fellow,  indifferent  alike  to  the  claims  of 
God  and  man.  What  appeared  to  him  good,  he  gen- 
erally secured,  if  at  all  possible.  The  one  softening 
influence  in  his  life  was  "Leetle  Lindy."  About  her, 
as  about  a  bright,  particular  star,  revolved  whatever 
of  good,  whatever  aspiration  to  better  things  he 
might  experience.  Hass  had  long  since  determined 
that  Lindy  should  be  his  wife  and  in  the  common  ac- 
ceptance of  the  mountain  vernacular,  owing  mainly, 
however,  to  his  persistence,  the  two  were  "a-spectin' 
to  be  jined,"  an  event  which  usually  takes  place  very 
early  in  the  life  of  the  mountain-girl.  In  fact,  should 
she  be  so  unfortunate  as  to  reach  the  mature  age  of 
twenty  years,  unmarried,  her  name  is  dropped  from 
the  "cull  list." 

In  the  case  of  Lindy,  Hass  had  for  a  long  time 
urged  his  suit.  Perhaps  the  tacit  indifference 
towards  Hass  evidenced  by  the  members  of  her  fam- 
ily may  have  had  its  influence.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
Lindy's  heart  had  remained  untouched  and  Hass 
was  growing  restive. 


CHAPTER    III 

HEY  diddle  diddle,  the  cat  and  the  fiddle," 
floated  out  through  the  kitchen  window. 
Joan  was  doing  her  weekly  baking  in  the  big 
oven  beside  the  chimney  and,  as  was  her  custom  when 
alone,  sang  or  soliloquized. 

Without  doubt,  Joan  Loyd  could  be  called  an  old 
maid,  not  by  right  of  years,  but  by  right  of  that  in- 
definable something  recognized  as  belonging  to  that 
state.  Plain  in  speech  and  manner  she  yet  had  a 
sweet  gift  of  sympathy  which  manifested  itself 
freely  and  unconsciously.  Joan  had  also  a  fund  of 
humor,  a  most  keen  appreciation  of  the  ludicrous, 
which  saved  for  her  many  a  situation  and  made  her  a 
merry  companion.  No  gathering  was  considered 
complete  without  her. 

It  certainly  was  bright  and  cheery  in  the  kitchen. 
The  sun  streamed  through  the  open  window  upon 
Peter,  the  big  black  cat,  purring  upon  the  sill.  The 
tins  and  utensils  reflected  the  light ;  the  candle-sticks, 
the  old-fashioned  brasses  upon  the  mantel,  the  tops 
of  the  fire-dogs  and  the  big  brass  kettle  shone  like 
gold.  The  puncheon  floor  was  immaculate ;  the  bricks 
in  front  of  the  wide  fireplace  were  stained  a  deep  red. 

10 


LINDY   LOYD  11 

Back,  within  the  chimney,  resting  firmly  upon 
ledges  upon  either  side,  stretched  the  iron  lug-pole 
from  which  hung  various  kinds  and  lengths  of 
hangers,  claws  and  chains  with  hooks,  upon  which 
the  pots  and  kettles  were  suspended  for  cooking.  In 
one  corner  of  the  chimney  swung  the  great  iron  pot ; 
in  the  other  were  gathered  a  number  of  trivets,  or 
frames,  upon  which  to  place  the  cooking  utensils. 
Down  in  front  of  the  embers  was  the  Dutch-oven  or 
bake-kettle. 

From  the  big  oven  stole  delectable  whiffs  sugges- 
tive of  good  things  to  come.  Particularly  was  this 
the  case  when  Joan,  seizing  the  long,  wooden  paddle, 
performed  sundry  waves  and  passes  within  its  cav- 
ernous depths.  Then  Peter,  sniffing  the  appetizing 
odors,  would  stretch  and  roll  luxuriously.  "Don't  't 
smell  good,  Peter?"  chuckled  Joan,  closing  the  oven 
door. 

From  the  low,  blackened  rafters  hung  various 
savory  pieces  of  meat  most  toothsome  in  their  cur- 
ing; while  strings  of  onions,  dried  fruits  of  different 
kinds,  bunches  of  herbs  and  other  garden  necessaries 
were  hung  from  poles  laid  across  the  rafters. 

In  one  corner  stood  the  spinning-wheel  and  loom; 
along  one  side  stretched  a  low,  roughly  made  settle, 
worn  shiny  with  age  and  use.  Over  the  top  of  the 
door  rested  a  couple  of  rifles,  the  powder-horns  hang- 
ing beneath.  Stout  wooden  pegs,  from  which  hung 
various  articles  of  clothing,  were  driven  into  the 


12  LINDY  LOYD 

sides  of  the  cabin.  A  ladder-like  contrivance,  placed 
against  the  side  of  the  cabin,  led  into  the  loft  above. 

The  family  had  been  early  astir  this  morning. 
Contrary  to  the  customary  ethics  of  the  mountaineer, 
Dimitri  Loyd  himself  cared  for  his  live-stock,  cut 
the  daily  supply  of  fuel,  and,  when  necessary,  helped 
with  the  milking.  Nor  did  he  require  field  work  from 
his  womenfolk,  securing  extra  help  elsewhere,  when 
needed. 

Immediately  after  breakfast  Mitry  and  his  dog 
had  taken  the  trail  up  the  mountain,  Ldndy  had  gone 
down  to  the  village  and  Joan  and  Peter  were  left 
alone.  Lindy  declared  Peter  to  be  Aunt  Joan's  fa- 
miliar. Be  that  as  it  may,  he  was  devoted  to  his 
mistress,  usually  found  near  her,  and  in  many  ways 
was  a  remarkable  cat. 

Suddenly,  with  a  low  cry,  he  sat  bolt  upright,  his 
head  thrust  forward.  "Did  you  say  somebuddy  wuz 
a-comin',  Peter?" — and  Joan  peered  through  the 
window.  "Huh!  thought  so,  Widder  Hicks!"  and 
turning,  Joan  rapidly  took  stock  of  her  possessions : 
"cake-turner,  candle-moulds,  meat-chopper,  quiltin'- 
frames  —  all  yere.  Now  I  wonder  just  what  she's 
a-goin'  to  borry  this  time?  Ah  now,  Peter,"  coax- 
ingly,  "can't  you  stay?"  But  Peter  was  already 
vanishing  barnwards.  "That  cat  never  could  a-bear 
Brackie — and  I  reckon  he  knows  why,  too,"  Joan 
added,  meaningly. 

Brackie  or  "Widder"  Hicks  was  a  tall,  thin  woman 


LINDY  LOYD  13 

with  keen  black  eyes  and  scanty  gray  hair  which  she 
wore  in  an  infinitesimal  knot  secured  with  a  horn 
comb.  She  had  a  melancholy  cast  of  countenance, 
was  subject  to  gloomy  forebodings  and  possessed  an 
ingenious  faculty  for  extracting  a  hidden  sting  from 
most  of  life's  happenings.  Along  with  this  pessi- 
mistic attitude  was  a  lively,  a  most  perennial  interest 
in  the  lives  of  others ;  and  being  plain-spoken,  with 
no  especial  delicacy  in  regard  to  soliciting  informa- 
tion, Mrs.  Hicks  was,  necessarily,  acquainted  with 
the  affairs  of  the  entire  neighborhood. 

Brackie  was  Joan's  nearest  neighbor  and  the  two, 
despite  the  difference  in  years,  were  mutually  de- 
voted, and  this,  in  spite  of  frequent  "fallings  out." 
Truth  to  tell,  Brackie's  endeavors  were  largely 
given  to  "keeping  up"  with  the  sprightly  Joan,  and 
as  Brackie  was  somewhat  afflicted  with  deafness  her 
efforts  in  this  direction  were  in  no  degree  lessened. 

As  has  been  intimated,  Mrs.  Hicks  was  an  incor- 
rigible borrower.  Upon  Lindy,  as  upon  the  younger, 
fell  the  burden  of  righting  her  easy-going  ways  and 
more  than  once  had  the  girl  returned  home,  storming, 
having  scoured  the  entire  neighborhood  in  the  effort 
to  reclaim  some  bit  of  property.  Along  with  her 
peculiarities,  however,  Mrs.  Hicks  possessed  a  boun- 
tifulness  of  sympathy  and  a  practical  helpfulness  in 
times  of  need  which  in  large  measure  atoned. 

"  'In  the  midst  of  life  we  air  in  death,'  "  Mrs.  Hicks 
began,  as  she  dropped  into  a  chair.  "There's  me, 


14  LINDY  LOYD 

now,  walked  right  over  one  of  them  pizen  moccasins, 
back  there;  walked  right  over  'im,  Joan,  an'  hit  wuz 
only  the  Lord's  mercy  that  I  didn't  plant  my  foot 
plum'  on  top  of  'im !  How  I  do  'spise  snakes,"  shud- 
dering. 

Joan's  eyes  twinkled.  "What'd  yuh  do?"  she  in- 
quired. 

"Screeched  —  and  made  for  the  fence  —  fell  all 
over't,  too.  I  'clar  for't,  I'm  that  bruised  —  " 

"Well,  you  didn't  step  on  'im,  Brackie,  you  can  be 
thankful  for  that,"  chuckled  Joan. 

"But  I  mought  have,  an'  I  don't  see  anything  so 
bodaciously  funny  'bout  't,  anyways,  Joan,"  per- 
sisted Mrs.  Hicks,  offended. 

"No,  there's  nothin'  funny  'bout  a  moccasin, 
Brackie,"  soothed  Joan.  "I — ,  I  wuz  just  a-thinkin 
'bout  you-uns  on  top  of  that  fence,"  she  added,  her 
back  turned  towards  her  companion. 

Mrs.  Hicks  eyed  her  doubtfully  as  she  went  on : 
"Well,  we  never  can  tell  just  when  the  judgments  of 
the  Almighty —  Oh,  Joan — "  Her  neck  craned  to 
search  the  mantel.  "You-uns  ain't  seen  nothin' — " 

"No,  I  ain't  seen  nothin'  —  an'  they  ain't  on  my 
mantel-piece,  nor  anywheres  in  my  house,  neither!" 
Joan  snapped. 

Mrs.  Hicks  turned  a  stony  gaze  upon  Joan. 

"A  body'd  think  you'd  have  a  place  to  keep  'em, 
Brackie  —  some  place  at  hum,"  Joan  went  on. 

"I  have,"  was  the  frigid  reply. 


LINDY  LOYD  15 

"Where,  then?"  demanded  Joan. 

"In  that  old  cracked  teapot  as  is  a-settin'  there 
on  my  mantel-piece,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Hicks,  with  omin- 
ous meekness. 

"Well,  for  the  lands  sake,  Brack  Hicks,  why  don't 
you  keep  'em  there?"  Joan  burst  forth,  recklessly. 
"Such-like  things  belong  in  your  mouth,  anyways!" 
she  added. 

"Reckon  they's  mine,"  icily. 

"They'd  orter  be,"  significantly. 

"A-meanin'  —  " 

"Well  —  'pears  like  they  belong  to  the  whole 
neighborhood  —  a  heap  of  times,  Brackie,"  ar- 
raigned Joan. 

Mrs.  Hicks  tied  on  her  sun-bonnet  and  rose.  "I'm 
a-goin',"  she  said. 

"Ah,  now,  Brackie,  set  dowfy,  set  down"  coaxed 
the  repentant  Joan.  "You  ain't  told  me  a  thing  — 
yet."  f  .;«  %-  •>  ' 

"I  'clar  for't,  you  do  make  me  so  mad,  Joan." 

"Haven't  you-uns  got  nothin'  to  tell?"  Joan  per- 
sisted. 

"They's  preachin'  come  next  Sunday,"  was  the 
reply,  and  Mrs.  Hicks  sank  back  into  her  chair. 

"Where  —  in  the  church-house  ?" 

"Yep." 

"Who,  Brackie?" 

"Brother  Burruss.  An'  I  reckon  you-alls  had 
better  be  there,  Joan.  Miz  Burruss,  she  have  been 


16  LINDY  LOYD 

daid  for  some  time,  now,"  she  added,  glancing  slyly 
at  her  companion.  But  Joan  received  her  suggestion 
in  dignified  silence. 

Brother  Burruss's  visits  to  the  settlement  were  of 
the  nature  of  events.  Although  perfectly  illiterate, 
he  possessed  considerable  force  of  character.  Com- 
bined with  his  religious  belief  was  a  strong  sense  of 
responsibility  in  regard  to  it  and  a  boldness  of  utter- 
ance. He  had,  also,  a  rude  gift  in  oratory,  deliv- 
ering his  sermons  with  directness  and  force.  His 
pleadings,  his  denunciations  swept  over  his  congre- 
gation like  a  flood.  Following  the  ethics  of  the 
mountaineer,  Brother  Burruss  preached  for  the 
love  of  it  —  his  support  being  derived  elsewhere. 

Presently  Mrs.  Hicks  went  on,  "Ain't  't  time  Lindy 
got  back  from  Dark  Holler?  Ain't  seen  her  for  a 
right  smart  whiles,  Joan,"  meaningly. 

Joan  made  no  reply. 

"Lindy  usen't  to  be  that  a-ways,  but  Hass  —  well, 
Hass,  he's  a  patient  kind  of  a  feller  an —  " 

"Patient  —  Hass  patient?"  flared  Joan,  "there's 
no  such  great  patience  —  as  I  can  see.  Lindy,  she's 
just  turned  sixteen  and,  well,  this  yere  life's  a 
moughty  uncertain  thing,  Brack  Hicks,  moughty  un- 
certain; an'  in  more  ways  than  one,"  she  concluded 
with  significance. 

"Mebbe  so,  mebbe  so,  Joan,"  hurriedly  acquiesced 
Mrs.  Hicks.  "Well,  I  must  be  a-goin.  Can  I  borry 
some  aigs  off  you-uns,  Joan?  My  hens  ain't  a-layin', 


LINDY   LOYD  17 

yere,  lately.     Sumpin's  got  up  with  'em."     Securing 
the  eggs,  Mrs.  Hicks  departed. 

Joan  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  middle  of  the 
kitchen  floor,  her  eyes  retrospective.  "Patient  — 
Hass  Hicks  patient !"  she  reiterated,  scornfully. 
Stepping  out  upon  the  porch  her  eyes  searched  the 
trail  leading  down  the  mountain. 


CHAPTEB,    IV 

NOT  many  years  since,  Dark  Hollow  was  a 
quaint,  old-fashioned  village  hidden  away 
among  the  mountains,  a  quiet,  most  charm- 
ing little  village  where  one  could  find  rest  for  body 
and  soul. 

But  the  railroad  pushed  its  way  into  Dark  Hollow. 
Soon  "Northern  Enterprise,"  recognizing  the  great 
natural  advantages,  healthful  climate,  medicinal 
waters  and  wild  beauty  of  the  locality,  seized  upon 
the  village  and  it  became  a  thriving  summer  resort. 

Dark  Hollow  is  delightfully  picturesque.  Its  wide, 
shaded  streets  climb  up  and  over,  intersect  and  end 
in  the  most  irresponsible  way.  But  the  crowning 
beauty  of  the  village  is  the  old  stone  church  which 
dates  back  over  a  century.  Right  at  this  point  the 
street  divides  to  form  a  V-shaped  section  and  well 
within  this  section,  surrounded  by  the  grand  old 
trees  that  fill  the  yard,  stands  the  ivy-covered 
church. 

Behind  the  church  rambles  the  old  graveyard. 
Wandering  along  its  shady  paths  one  comes  upon 
many  an  honored  name  recalling  the  horrors  of  the 
Civil  War.  Above  the  quiet  dead  is  heard  the  un- 

18 


LINDY   LOYD  19 

ceasing  lament  of  the  pines,  while  over  all,  dominat- 
ing all,  lies  the  brooding  sadness  of  the  mountains. 

Meanwhile,  Lindy,  her  purpose  accomplished,  had 
turned  towards  home.  The  freshness  and  charm  of 
the  early  hours  yet  lingered,  and  as  the  girl  stepped 
blithely  along  the  village  street,  every  pulse  thrilling 
with  life,  her  brilliant  coloring  and  dusky  hair  em- 
phasized by  the  dark  blue  home-spun  that  clothed  her 
pretty  figure,  she  was  herself  an  exemplification  of 
the  opening  day. 

Presently  the  girl  reached  the  bridge  that  spanned 
the  mountain  brook.  Allured  by  its  witching  call 
she  leaned  far  over  the  old  stone  parapet  to  listen 
as  it  chattered  of  its  wanderings  —  of  cool,  shady 
reaches  and  shining  bottoms ;  of  dim,  mysterious 
courses  and  bold  plunges ;  of  the  deep,  black  holes 
where  speckled  trout  sported. 

Farther  along  the  street  was  the  new  schoolhouse, 
in  process  of  erection.  A  group  of  villagers  were 
standing  near,  among  them,  Hugh  Humphrey,  but  re- 
cently returned  to  his  native  town.  As  Lindy  passed 
the  building  she  paused  a  moment,  attracted  by  the 
busy  scene. 

At  this  instant  a  workman  carrying  a  heavy  hod 
of  bricks  stepped  out  upon  the  narrow  platform  di- 
rectly above  the  girl.  As  he  slowly  turned  to  deliver 
his  load,  his  foot  caught  in  some  projection  and  he 
stumbled. 

Unconscious  of  her  peril,  deaf  to  the  shouts  of  the 


20  LINDY  LOYD 

spectators,  Lindy  stood  breathless,  her  horrified  gaze 
fixed  upon  the  struggling  man,  who,  finally,  was 
obliged  to  release  his  burden  which  fell  crashing 
down  below. 

A  rush  of  air  —  a  smothered  oath  —  and  Hugh 
Humphrey  had  seized  the  girl  and  dragged  her 
to  a  place  of  safety.  "God,  girl  —  "  he  panted,  his 
eyes  upon  his  attractive  burden. 

Faint,  sick  with  fright,  Lindy  remained  for  a  mo- 
ment quiet  within  Hugh's  arms,  her  eyes  closed.  "Is 
—  is  he  dead?"  she  breathed. 

"No  —  the  man's  all  right  —  it  was  the  bricks 
that  fell  —  but  you  —  are  you  all  right,  Lindy  ?  — 
Lindy  Loyd?"  Hugh  added,  softly. 

The  girl's  eyes  flew  wide,  then  — 

"Yes,  it's  Hugh.  I  have  come  back,  you  see,"  he 
went  on,  simply,  his  eyes  glued  to  hers,  his  arms  still 
about  her. 

"Yes,  I'm  all  right,  too,"  breathed  the  girl,  strug- 
gling to  her  feet. 

"But  are  you  sure?"  relinquishing  her  slowly. 

"Oh,  yes,  see?"  Shyly  lifting  her  eyes,  Lindy  met 
Hugh's  ardent  gaze.  Startled  —  the  brilliant  color 
flooding  her  cheek,  she  turned  away.  "I  —  I  must 
go  —  now,"  she  stammered. 

Modestly  receiving  the  congratulations  of  those 
about  her,  Lindy  hurried  up  the  mountain  "like  a 
bird  to  its  cover."  Reaching  the  old  lumber  camp, 
a  favorite  resort  since  childhood  days,  she  flung  her- 


LINDY  LOYD  21 

self  beneath  a  giant  pine,  burying  her  face  in  the 
fragrant  needles. 

Lindy  had  never  forgotten  Hugh  —  the  big  boy 
at  school;  always  kind,  always  ready  to  protect  her, 
to  help  her  in  any  and  all  of  her  difficulties  —  and 
the  recognition  had  been  mutual.  With  the  throng- 
ing memories  came  the  realization  of  their  meaning 
—  and  the  girl  hid  her  face.  Presently  she  whis- 
pered :  "Yes,  —  he  is  handsome  —  he  is  brave  —  and 
he  is  strong!  Oh,  yes,  he  is  strong,"  she  reiterated, 
her  eyes  retrospective.  And  with  shining  eyes  Lindy 
pursued  her  way  up  the  trail. 

Hugh  Humphrey  turned  to  meet  the  grinning  faces 
about  him. 

"Feel  good,  Doc?"  leered  a  tipsy  loafer. 

Hugh's  face  went  white. 

"Yah,  yah  — "  and  the  tipsy  one  broke  into 
maudlin  laughter.  "Why  didn't  you  kiss  her?  She 
wouldn't  a-keered,  none,"  he  jeered. 

Hugh's  fist  shot  out  —  and  the  man  lay  upon  the 
ground. 

"Aw,  now,  son,"  soothed  a  grizzled  veteran,  push- 
ing forward.  "You  done  us  all  proud  —  you  done  us 
all  proud"  he  reiterated;  and  seizing  Hugh's  hand, 
he  shook  it,  heartily. 

"Yes,  that's  so  —  that's  right,"  agreed  the  crowd. 
Turning  an  indifferent  ear  to  the  commendations  of 
his  companions,  Hugh  swung  off  up  the  village  street. 
"Gad !  —  so  that  was  Lindy  Loyd !"  he  meditated, 


22  LINDY  LOYD 

flinging  out  his  arms  still  tingling  from  the  touch  of 
her  girlish  body. 

Striding  along,  Hugh  went  over  each  detail.  "But 
she  is  charming  —  charming"  he  muttered,  as  Lin- 
dy's  beauty,  her  quiet,  self-possessed  bearing  passed 
swiftly  before  his  mind.  "But  Lindy  was  always  like 
that  —  different  —  somehow,"  he  added. 

Hugh  Humphrey  was  the  son  of  the  village  doctor 
—  Dr.  James  Hugh  Humphrey.  During  the  past 
four  years  Hugh  had  been  studying  medicine  at  one 
of  the  Northern  universities.  Chiefly  on  account  of 
the  cost  of  travel,  partly,  too,  because  his  vacations 
were  employed  in  earning  money  to  further  defray 
his  college  expenses,  Hugh  had  remained  away  from 
Dark  Hollow  during  this  entire  period.  The  recent 
illness  and  death  of  his  father  had  recalled  him  to 
his  home. 

The  settlement  of  Dr.  Humphrey's  estate  left  very 
little  aside  from  the  old  home,  and  deciding  to  re- 
main for  a  time  in  Dark  Hollow,  Hugh  had  found 
employment  for  the  summer  at  the  hotel. 

The  innovations  —  the  transitions  time  had  made 
during  his  absence  were  a  constant  source  of  sur- 
prise to  Hugh  —  and  that  the  beautiful  girl  he  had 
rescued  should  have  proven  to  be  the  pretty  child 
he  had  admired  in  schoolboy  days,  was  positively  be- 
wildering. But  that  it  was  Lindy,  was  beyond  ques- 
tion. One  flash  from  those  wonderful  eyes  had  per- 
fectly established  her  identity. 


CHAPTER     V 

THE  following  Sunday  dawned,  cloudless. 
Religious  services  were  of  rare  occurrence 
in  the  mountains.     News   of  the  'Preachin', 
however,  had  been  freely  circulated  and  long  before 
the  hour  for  meeting  had  arrived,  the  mountaineers 
were  gathering  in  the  church-house. 

From  valley  and  cove,  from  bleak,  apparently 
inaccessible  heights  and  from  the  hidden  places  — 
on  foot,  in  vehicles  of  every  sort  and  description,  by 
horse,  by  mule  and  by  bull,  following  the  innumerable 
trails  which,  like  threads,  cross  and  re-cross  in  every 
direction,  they  came.  The  old  and  middle-aged  — 
gaunt  of  body,  hopeless,  indifferent  —  the  young, 
the  babies  in  arms  —  even  the  faithful  house-dog  — 
all  were  there. 

The  church-house  was  built  of  logs.  It  had  two 
front  doors  —  one  for  the  women,  the  other  for  the 
men.  On  either  side  of  the  building  were  two  win- 
dows. At  the  rear,  a  rude  platform  supported  an 
equally  rude  pulpit.  In  front  of  the  latter,  upon  a 
small  table,  stood  a  pail  of  water  with  a  drinking- 
gourd,  to  which  the  congregation  resorted  at  any 
and  all  times.  The  benches  were  simply  rough  boards, 

23 


24  LINDY  LOYD 

destitute  of  backs.  These,  with  a  rusty  stove,  com- 
pleted the  furnishings. 

The  women  and  girls,  plainly  clad,  were  seated  in 
rows  upon  one  side  of  the  building.  Generally 
speaking,  the  women  were  thin,  worn  and  hopeless- 
appearing  —  for  the  mountain  woman  marries  young 
and  fades  young.  In  addition  to  the  cares  of  mother- 
hood and  cabin,  she  is  expected  to  help  in  all  the 
work  of  the  farm,  field  work  not  excepted  —  and 
when  from  the  shelter  of  a  sun-bonnet  a  young,  care- 
free face  looked  forth,  the  effect  was  startling  by 
contrast. 

Opposite,  usually  attired  in  "jeans"  and  checked 
cotton  shirt  —  the  customary  gun  close  at  hand  — 
sat  the  men  —  their  beards  long  and  ragged,  their 
hair  unshorn  for  many  a  day.  With  gaunt  bodies 
relaxed  in  the  manner  that  most  appealed  to  them  — 
with  quid  in  mouth  and  freely  expectorating  —  they 
sat  with  listless,  melancholy  faces  upturned  to  the 
speaker,  or,  if  so  inclined,  bent  over  a  bit  of  whit- 
tling. 

As  has  been  intimated,  Brother  Burruss's  sermons 
were  matters  to  be  reckoned  with.  For  two  hours 
he  had  held  them  spellbound,  the  children  long  since 
yielding  to  sleep,  the  dogs  cuffed  into  silence.  And 
now,  as  the  afternoon  drew  to  a  close,  his  hearers  still 
sat,  breathless,  swept  and  dominated  by  the  fire  and 
passion  of  the  preacher,  who,  white  and  spent, 
towered  in  denunciation  above  them. 


LINDY   LOYD  25 

"An'  ye  will  call  on  the  mountains  to  fall  on  ye, 
an'  the  hills  to  kiver  ye !"  he  cried,  bringing  his  ser- 
mon to  a  close. 

Stepping  out  to  the  edge  of  the  platform  he  leaned 
far  over,  his  arm  raised  in  accusation,  his  voice  vi- 
brant, and  solemnly  enunciated:  "But  yo-alls  gotter 
be  there !"  reiterating  slowly,  his  voice  a  tense  whis- 
per: "gotter  be  right  there!"  For  an  instant  he 
stood,  his  arm  outstretched,  his  burning  gaze  fixed. 
Suddenly  he  dropped  upon  his  knees.  And  over  the 
congregation  swept  a  long,  drawn  breath.  Gather- 
ing up  their  sleeping  children,  they  quietly  left  the 
house. 


CHAPTER     VI 

IMMEDIATELY   after   the   service,   Lindy  and 
Hass  Hicks  started  down  the  trail. 

"Heern  tell  you-uns  wuz  down  to  Dark  Hol- 
ler, yesterday,"  Hass  began,  searching  the  girl's 
face. 

Lindy's  face  flamed,  but  she  made  no  reply. 

"I  wuz  down  there,  too  —  hit  wuz  last  night," 
Hass  went  on,  with  significance. 

Still  Lindy  held  her  peace. 

"An'  Hite  Cronce,  he  'lowed  that  city  feller  —  " 

"Oh,  yes,  Hass,  I  was  down  —  " 

"Yanked  you-uns  out  the  way  just  in  time,"  con- 
cluded her  tormentor. 

"Yes,  just  in  time,"  reiterated  the  girl,  softly,  a 
sweet,  retrospective  look  stealing  over  her  face. 

Hass  eyed  her,  miserably. 

They  had  halted  under  a  huge  oak  and  Lindy,  sun- 
bonnet  tossed  aside,  her  hands  clasped  back  of  her 
head,  chin  uptilted,  was  leaning  gracefully  against 
it.  As  she  stood  there,  so  provocative  in  her  proud, 
young  beauty,  Hass's  smouldering  jealousy  burst 
forth. 

26 


LINDY  LOYD  27 

"Lindy,  wuz  you-uns  in  that  feller's  arms,  yes- 
terday? Wuz  you?  Tell  me  —  now!"  he  hissed,  his 
face  thrust  forward. 

But  Lindy  never  heard  him.  Oblivious  of  the 
present  —  of  Hass  —  of  everything,  the  girl  was 
back  in  the  realms  of  yesterday. 

It  was  more  than  mortal  man  could  endure.  "An' 
that  dad-burned  foreigner  can  take  you-uns  in  his 
arms  —  an'  me  —  an'  me  —  Gol-darn  'im !"  Hass 
shouted.  Quivering  with  rage,  he  stood  for  a  second, 
staring  at  the  girl,  then  —  "Well,  — if  he  can  —  so 
can  I  —  "  and  before  the  astonished  girl  could  grasp 
the  situation,  Hass  had  seized  her  in  his  arms  and  had 
kissed  her. 

White,  speechless  with  indignation,  Lindy  tore  her- 
self away  and  confronted  him. 

"You-uns  war  so  darned  purty  I  just  nacherly  had 
to,"  he  muttered. 

Still  Lindy  stood  speechless. 

"I  never  have  —  before  —  riot  once !  —  Wisht  I 
had  —  now,"  he  went  on,  becoming  bolder. 

Panting,  bewitching  in  her  fury,  Lindy  stood,  her 
scathing  eyes  upon  his.  Suddenly  she  turned  and 
without  a  word  sped  down  the  mountain. 

Hass  seized  the  sun-bonnet  and  kept  close  at  her 
heels,  hoping  to  pacify  her.  But  not  one  word  did 
Lindy  vouchsafe;  and  reaching  her  home  she  burst 
into  the  house  and  slammed  the  door  in  his  face. 

"The  tarnal  leetle  beauty!  —  but  I'll  tame  her, 


28  LINDY  LOYD 

yet,"  Hass  gritted;  and  hanging  the  sun-bonnet  on 
the  fence,  he  departed. 

Safe  in  the  privacy  of  her  room,  Lindy  gave  way 
to  her  pent-up  emotion :  "How  dared  he  ?  —  how 
dared  lie  —  the  beast !"  she  demanded,  the  angry 
tears  falling.  "If  Daddy  only  knew  —  but  I  dare  not 
tell  Daddy  —  he'd  shoot  him  —  he  would !  —  Ugh !  I 
can  feel  his  arms  about  me,  yet!"  and  the  girl 
writhed.  Suddenly  she  stood  stock  still,  the  sweet, 
retrospective  look  again  in  her  eyes.  Then,  with 
darkening  face,  her  mouth  a  straight  line,  she  cried, 
passionately:  "Marry  Hass  Hicks?  —  marry  him? 
never !  —  never !" 

Joan,  meanwhile,  was  preparing  the  evening  meal 
—  Peter  purring  and  coaxing  at  her  side. 

The  kitchen  was  filled  with  appetizing  odors :  the 
potatoes  were  roasting  in  the  ashes ;  the  bacon  and 
eggs  sizzled  upon  the  trivets ;  from  the  bake-kettle  — 
standing  among  the  coals  —  were  presently  to  be 
taken  biscuits  unequalled  by  any  modern  form  of 
cookery;  while  over  all,  penetrating  through  all, 
arose  the  incomparable  aroma  of  coffee. 

In  one  corner  of  the  fireplace,  tilted  comfortably 
against  the  jamb,  Mitry  Loyd  awaited  supper. 

"Where's  Cita?"  he  inquired. 

Joan  heaped  more  coals  about  the  bake-kettle  ere 
she  replied,  irrelevantly,  "Hass  Hicks,  he  got  his 
kem-uppins  this  day  an  I,  for  one,  am  glad  of  it. 
Mitry  Loyd?  —  "  and  Joan  rose  and  confronted  him, 


LINDY  LOYD  29 

"Hass  Hicks,  he  ain't  no  more  fit  for  Lindy  than  — 
than  —  Well  —  he  ain't  fit!  —  that's  all,  an  you-uns 
knows  it." 

"No  — he  ain't  fit,"  growled  Mitry;  —  "an  he's 
a-gettin  so  dad-busted  presumin',  yere  lately,  that 
me'n  him  are  just  nacherly  'bliged  to  kem  to  blows 

—  before  long,  too,"  he  added.    "Did  Hass  bring  — " 
"Huh!"    Joan    interrupted,  "Hass    brung    home 

Lindy's  sun-bunnit  —  can't  say  he  brung  her.  Must 
have  had  some  kind  of  a  flare-up,"  she  went  on. 
"Lindy,  she  kem  a-stepping  along,  head  up,  just  like 
she  had  wings  to  her  feet.  Hass,  he  kem  on  behind ; 
had  all  he  could  do  to  keep  up  with  her,  too ;"  and 
Joan  chuckled  at  the  recollection.  "Bring  Lindy? 

—  Laws-a-massy,  Mitry !  —  Lindy,  she  kem  through 
that  gate  and  into  the  house  like  a  whirl-wind  and 
slam  —  bang  —  went  the  door,  plum'  in  Hass's  face 

—  an    he    stood    there    just    a-gawpin  —  a-hangin 
onto  the  bunnit." 

"Served  'im  right  —  dad-bust  'im !"  blazed  Mitry. 
"Been  up  to  some  of  his  darn  foolishness,  I  reckon." 

"Most  likely,"  agreed  Joan. 

Presently  Lindy  entered  the  kitchen.  Going 
straight  to  her  father  the  girl  laid  her  arms  about 
his  neck  and  lifted  her  face  to  his.  For  the  space  of 
a  second  neither  spoke. 

"Did  you-uns  take  keer  of  yerself,  Cita?"  Mitry 
inquired,  solemnly. 

"Yes,  Daddy,"  with  unfaltering  gaze. 


30  LINDY  LOYD 

"I'm  right  yere,  Cita,"  significantly. 

"I'm  here,  too,  Daddy,"  replied  the  girl,  a  deter- 
mined look  stealing  over  her  face. 

And  Mitry's  arms  closed  tightly  about  her.  "That 
suits  me  —  just,"  was  the  answer  —  adding,  with 
apparent  irrelevance,  "The  damned  whelp !" 

Late  that  night  the  moon  peering  between  the 
quivering  branches  gazed  directly  into  the  wide-open 
eyes  of  the  girl  and  received  her  whispered  confi- 
dence :  "I'll  never  marry  Hass  Hicks !  never  — 
never!" 

Shortly  after,  Mitry  Loyd  placed  a  tiny  revolver 
in  the  hands  of  his  daughter.  "Hit  won't  hurt  ye 
—  none,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER    VII 

EARLY  the  next  morning  Lindy  started  up  the 
mountain  after  huckleberries. 

"Don't  exactly  like  that  bunch  of  clouds 
over  yonder,  Lindy,"  warned  Aunt  Joan,  "better  not 
go  too  far." 

"I'll  watch  out  —  "  and  the  girl  was  off. 

Scorning  any  trail,  Lindy  chose  a  direct  route  to 
her  destination  and  with  the  sure  foot  of  the  moun- 
taineer scaled  heights,  sprang  from  crag  to  crag 
and  soon  reached  the  berry  section  where  the  luscious 
fruit  grew  in  its  perfection  —  both  "high"  bush  and 
"low."  Filling  her  pails  the  girl  took  the  trail  to 
Dark  Hollow,  delivered  her  berries  at  the  hotel  and 
returned  up  the  mountain  by  way  of  the  old  lumber 
camp.  Flinging  herself  wearily  beneath  the  old  pine, 
Lindy  gazed  dreamily  overhead,  lulled  by  its  low, 
sweet  song. 

Between  the  branches  she  could  catch  glimpses  of 
feathery  clouds,  floating.  High  in  the  ether  a  hawk 
was  slowly  circling.  Just  over  her  head,  a  great 
brown  wood-spider  had  hung  his  filmy  web.  To  her 
ears  came  the  "cheep-cheep"  of  the  young  partridge 
and  the  sharp  bark  of  the  squirrels  chasing  from  tree 

81 


32  LINDY  LOYD 

to  tree.  Closer,  a  pair  of  chipmunks  chattered  and 
scolded  as  they  whisked  over  and  under  the  old  skid- 
way;  while  the  birds,  upon  household  duties  in- 
tent, kept  up  a  constant  warbling  and  calling.  Lying 
upon  the  needles,  Lindy  vied  with  the  merry  song- 
sters, mocking,  longing,  entreating :  "Pee-a-wee  — 
pee-a-wee  —  pee-a-wee  —  m  she  called,  plaintively. 

"Pee-a-wee  —  pee-a-wee-a-peer,"  answered  the  pe- 
wee-bird. 

"Chu-it  —  chu-it  —  chu-it  —  chu-it  —  wit-chu-it 
—  chew,"  whistled  the  girl  in  response  to  a  yellow- 
warbler. 

"Cheer-up  —  cheer-up  —  cheer-up  —  "  a  robin 
chirped,  gaily. 

"Cheer-up  —  cheerily  —  cheerily  —  "  she  lilted 
with  exquisite  mimicry. 

"Tru-al-ly?  —  tru-al-ly?  —  tru-al-ly?  —  "  ques- 
tioned the  bluebird. 

"Yes  —  tru-al-ly  —  tru-al-ly  —  tru-al-ly  —  " 
laughed  the  girl,  every  pulse  thrilling  with  the  song 
of  life. 

The  sweet-scented  woods  were  riotous  with  the  ap- 
peal. The  winds  sang  it,  the  leaves  whispered  it,  all 
nature  proclaimed  it. 

Hugh  Humphrey,  too,  heard  the  call.  "I'll  find 
her,"  he  breathed  as  he  followed  Lindy  up  the  trail. 
"Ah  —  here  —  " 

i  I  am  indebted  to  "Bird  Neighbors"  by  Neltje  Blanchant 
for  the  bird-notes;  also  to  "Field  Book  of  Wild  Birds  and 
their  Music"  by  F.  S.  Matthews.— M.  E.  H. 


LINDY  LOYD  33 

Over  the  old  camp  the  sun  had  flung  a  sheen  of  gold. 
Sifting  through  the  foliage  it  danced  in  tremulous 
flecks  of  light  and  fell  in  golden  bars  across  the  shad- 
ows. Creeping  into  dark  and  secret  places,  search- 
ing, coaxing,  its  warm,  caressing  rays  had  hidden 
with  a  tangle  of  new  growth  the  neglected  heaps  of 
sawdust  and  chips,  of  brushwood  and  logs  and  cov- 
ered with  a  living  mantle  the  unsightly  "donkey" 
platform  and  rotting  skid-way. 

A  pink  sun-bonnet  fluttered  gaily  from  the  top  of  a 
stick  driven  down  into  an  old  stump.  This  strange 
bit  of  forest  furniture  in  no  slightest  degree  dis- 
turbed the  habitues  of  the  camp.  In  like  measure 
they  had  accepted  the  owner  of  the  sun-bonnet, 
within  whose  vicinity  the  riot  of  melody  had  con- 
centrated. 

"Wit  —  witch-e-ry  —  witch-e-ry  —  witch-e-ry  — 
witch  —  "  sang  the  yellow- thro  at. 

"Which-is-it  —  which-is-it  — which-is-it?  — 
which?"  mocked  the  girl  under  the  pine ;  —  and  Hugh 
hurried  eagerly  forward. 

"You  still  mimic  the  birds,  Lindy,"  he  cried.  "I 
thought  you  were  one  of  them  and  but  for  this  —  " 
indicating  the  sun-bonnet  —  "I  should  not  have  found 
you." 

"Were  you  looking  for  me?"  Lindy  inquired,  shyly. 

Hugh  scanned  the  guileless  face  —  then  answered, 
as  frankly :  "Yes  —  I  wanted  to  find  you  —  I 
wanted  —  " 


34  LINDY  LOYD 

Lindy's  face  flushed.  "I  —  I  have  been  berryin' 
—  see?"  she  interrupted,  holding  out  her  hands  for 
inspection. 

But  Hugh  went  on:  "I  wanted  to  satisfy  myself 
that  it  was  really  you,  Lindy  —  and  not  some  elf- 
child  that  I  had  in  my  —  aw  —  er  —  that  I  saw  in 
Dark  Hollow,  the  other  day,"  he  finished,  lamely. 

A  wave  of  brilliant  color  swept  over  the  girl's 
face.  "You  —  you  saved  my  life  —  "  she  whispered. 

"Oh  —  aw  —  that's  all  right,"  broke  in  Hugh,  as 
he,  too,  dropped  down  beneath  the  pine. 

Presently  Hugh  began:  "I  am  to  be  employed  at 
the  hotel,  this  summer,  Lindy;  I  am  to  drive  for 
Miss  Lucie  Simmons." 

"Oh  —  for  Miss  Lucie?  —  then  she  has  come  up  !" 

"Yes  —  you  know  her?" 

"I  love  her,"  was  the  simple  reply. 

"I  have  my  father's  horses;  it  is  better  for 
them  and  — incidentally  —  it  is  better  for  me,"  he 
continued. 

Miss  Lucie  Simmons  was  a  cripple.  To  an  incur- 
able spinal  affection  were  added  other  complications, 
so  that  her  life  was  seldom  free  from  pain.  Miss 
Lucie's  summers  were  spent  in  Dark  Hollow  and  to 
Lindy,  her  arrival  was  an  event.  Quick  to  recog- 
nize the  innate  worth  of  the  mountain-girl,  charmed 
by  her  bright  beauty  and  attractiveness,  Miss  Lucie 
had  early  made  herself  Lindy's  friend.  Miss  Lucie 
was  attended  by  "Mammy  Lou",  her  nurse  since 


LINDY  LOYD  35 

babyhood.  Mammy  was,  also,  the  sole  surviving 
member  of  Miss  Lucie's  family. 

"When  the  summer  is  over  —  ah,  well  —  I  don't 
know  as  to  that,"  Hugh  went  on,  presently,  respon- 
sive to  the  girl's  unspoken  sympathy. 

"You  —  you  mean  —  your  studies?"  Lindy 
queried,  softly. 

"Yes  —  that  is  one  thing ;  but  my  mother  needs 
me  now  —  and  my  studies  must  wait.  I  must 
arrange  for  her  comfort,  first." 

"Ah  —  yes !  —  your  mother ;"  and  the  girl's  voice 
was  wistful. 

In  the  meantime,  —  entirely  unnoticed  by  the  two 
—  "That  bunch  of  clouds"  had  concentrated  and  a 
violent  storm,  heralded  by  a  sudden  gust,  a  darken- 
ing sky  and  a  rumble  of  thunder,  was  almost  upon 
them. 

Now  Lindy  dreaded  a  thunder-storm;  her  fear 
being  pre-natal,  was,  in  a  sense,  beyond  control.  "Oh, 
Hugh!  —  will  it  be  very  bad?"  she  cried. 

A  blinding  flash,  followed  by  another,  and  yet  an- 
other, accompanied  by  an  apparent  rending  of  the 
entire  universe,  was  the  reply:  —  then  came  the 
downpour. 

"Let's  run  for  the  cave,"  gasped  the  girl. 

"Cave  —  where?"  shouted  Hugh,  in  the  uproar. 

"Oh  —  I  don't  know  —  somewhere  —  ah,  here !" 
stumbling  blindly  along,  the  terrified  girl  led  the  way 
to  a  narrow  opening  in  the  rock  completely  over- 


36  LINDY  LOYD 

grown  with  vines.  Tearing  aside  the  leafy  covering 
they  hurried  through  the  fissure,  entered  the  cave 
and  were  at  once  relieved  from  the  deluge. 

White,  nerveless,  Lindy  crouched,  shuddering, 
upon  the  floor,  her  hands  in  Hugh's  firm  clasp. 

It  was  a  tiny  refuge,  suggesting  the  one-time  lair 
of  some  beast  of  the  forest ;  but  as  Hugh's  eyes  be- 
came accustomed  to  the  gloom,  he  discovered  evi- 
dences of  a  human  and  a  more  recent  occupant :  rem- 
nants of  discarded  treasures  incident  to  childhood 
days  —  perhaps  to  a  more  recent  date. 

"Isn't  that  a  book,  Lindy  —  lying  over  yonder?" 
indicating  an  object  in  the  dimness. 

Lindy  peered  into  the  shadows.  "It's  Miss  Lucie's 
*Lucille' !  I  must  have  left  it  —  Oh  —  oh  —  "  and 
the  girl  cowered  before  the  storm. 

"Listen  Lindy  — "  and  Hugh  endeavored  to 
reason  with  her. 

"Oh,  yes  —  I  know,  Hugh  —  and  I  do  try ;  —  but 
I  cannot  seem  to  help  it.  I  cannot  explain,  exactly" 
—  and  she  lifted  puzzled  brows  —  "but  it  is  as  if  — 
as  if  I  were  someone  else  —  somehow." 

"Were  you  ever  hurt  by  a  storm,  Lindy  ?  —  or 
you  may  have  inherited  your  fear." 

"I  wonder  — "  presently  Lindy  added,  softly. 
"Aunt  Joan  said  my  mother  was  terribly  frightened 
by  a  thunder-storm  —  once;  it  was  just  a  little 
while  before  I  was  born;  Aunt  Joan  said  mother 
was  flung  —  and  somebody  was  killed.  Maybe  — 


LINDY  LOYD  37 

but  indeed  I  am  sorry,  Hugh,"  she  added,  sweetly, 
her  eyes  troubled. 

"I  think  you  cannot  help  your  fear,  Lindy,"  Hugh 
soothed. 

In  the  meantime,  the  violence  of  the  storm  had  less- 
ened. Soon  a  shaft  of  golden  light  stole  through  the 
fissure  and  immediately  the  air  was  filled  with  the 
fragrance  of  fresh  earth  and  of  growing  things ;  a 
bird  called  from  a  thicket  nearby  —  and  they  knew 
the  storm  was  over. 


CHAPTEB   VIII 

LINDY,"  began  Joan,  "I'm  just  'bliged  to  go  up 
to  Neelie  Horn's;  can't  seem  to  get  'er  off 
my  mind  —  not  since  Sam  Horn,  he  told  me 
she  war  so  mis'ble  like.     I  dreampt  about  'er  again 
last  night  —  that's  the  third  time  —  an  't  air  born 
in  upon  me  that  I  just  nacherly  have  to  go  up  there." 
This   conversation  occurred  a  few  days  after  the 
meeting  in  the  church-house. 

"We  might  go  up  this  morning,"  suggested  the 
girl. 

"So  we  might  —  then.  An  we-uns'll  go  round  by 
Miz  Etter's  an  stop  in,  a  minute." 

"A  body'd  think  Miz  Etter  couldn't  last  much 
longer,"  said  Joan,  later,  as  she  added  jelly  and  a 
bottle  of  cordial  to  her  already  well-filled  basket  and 
the  two  started  up  the  mountain. 

"There's  'Aunt'  Polly,  now  —  over  in  the  corn- 
patch,"  said  Lindy,  as  they  neared  the  cabin. 

Aunt  Polly  was  an  old  colored  woman.  Her  fam- 
ily dead  and  scattered,  she  had  drifted  into  the  set- 
tlement and  had  become  a  member  of  Si  Etter's 
household. 

"Howdy,  Aunt  Polly  —  howdy,"  called  Lindy. 
38 


LINDY  LOYD  39 

"Mo'nin,  Missy,  mo'nin'  "  she  responded,  coming 
to  the  fence. 

"How's  Miz  Etter,  Polly?"  Joan  inquired. 

"Miz  Sally  is  sho'  po'ly,  Mistiss,"  replied  the  old 
woman.  "Miz  Sally,  she  won't  be  yere  long  —  no- 
ways," she  added,  nodding  her  head,  impressively. 

Entering  the  house,  Joan  dispensed  her  comforts 
and  her  cheer  and  presently  they  turned  to  go. 

"I  don't  see  but  that  Miz  Etter  seems  'bout  as 
usual,  Polly,"  said  Joan,  lingering  outside. 

But  Aunt  Polly  refused  to  be  cheered.  "She  won't 
be  yere  long,  Mistiss  —  noways"  she  reiterated. 
"I'se  sho'  had  de  wa'nin,"  she  mumbled,  turning 
away. 

"What's  that,  Polly?"  coaxed  Joan,  "tell  me." 

"Mistiss,"  she  began,  her  voice  a  whisper,  "I  war 
a-totin  in  de  wood  last  night,  and  a  lil  white  dog,  he 
run  des  befo'  me;  an  when  I  stoop  to  pat  'im  —  he 
wan'  dar;  —  he  wan't  nowhar."  And  Aunt  Polly 
glanced  apprehensively  around. 

The  two  women  stood,  breathless. 

"An  right  in  de  daid  of  de  night,"  Aunt  Polly  con- 
tinued, "cum  de  tap  —  tap  —  tap,  three  times  on  my 
do';  an  when  I  opened  it,  Mistiss,  wan't  nobuddy 
dar  —  nobuddy." 

"Shucks,  Polly!"  cried  Joan,  "you  war 
a-dreamin !" 

"I  wan't  a-dreamin,  Mistiss,"  muttered  the  old 
woman  as  she  returned  to  her  work. 


40  LINDY  LOYD 

Disquieted  by  old  Polly's  forebodings  the  two  pro- 
ceeded silently  and  timorously  along  the  mountain- 
road. 

"Land-sakes  !  Lindy  —  but  wuzn't  old  Polly  fear- 
some?" breathed  Joan,  glancing  apprehensively  over 
her  shoulder. 

It  was  a  road  utterly  inconceivable  to  any  but  to 
a  native ;  —  with  great  upheavals  of  solid  rock 
washed  perfectly  bare  by  the  mountain  torrents,  and 
with  deep  gullies  to  be  encountered  at  any  step  of 
the  way. 

Crossing  an  empty,  desolate  tract  which  marked 
the  path  of  a  mountain-fire,  they  entered  an  old  log- 
road  and  were  immediately  enveloped  by  the  forest. 

Presently,  heralded  by  a  cheerful  "Gee  —  haw  — 
gee!"  an  ox-cart  came  into  view.  The  cart  was  a 
skeleton-like  affair,  rudely  constructed,  unwieldy 
and  drawn  by  a  single  ox.  "Howdy  —  howdy  —  " 
gaily  called  the  driver  as  he  passed  on  down  the 
mountain. 

The  woods  were  vivid  with  life.  On  every  side 
were  blooms,  beneath,  a  wilderness  of  growth.  To 
the  ears  came  the  bewitching  voice  of  the  woods :  the 
tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle  of  the  unseen  stream;  the  end- 
less variety  of  call  and  song.  Rare  butterflies  flitted 
before  them;  occasionally  a  rabbit  or  some  timid 
wood-dweller  scurried  by ;  once,  an  old  owl  gave  them 
a  sleepy  "Whoo  —  hoo  —  hoo !"  On  the  top  of  a 
rock  a  black  snake  lay  coiled,  his  sinuous  folds  shin- 


LINDY  LOYD  41 

ing  in  the  sun ;  once,  the  "br-r-r-r  —  "  of  the  rattle- 
snake came  to  their  ears  and  Lindy's  fingers  tight- 
ened upon  the  tiny  protector  within  her  bosom.  But 
the  rattler  is  usually  a  peaceful  enough  fellow,  un- 
less disturbed,  and  they  passed  quickly  on.  Occa- 
sionally an  abandoned  "lean-to"  marked  the  lumber- 
man's track ;  at  times,  the  faint,  unmistakable  odor 
of  boiling  "mash"  was  born  upon  the  breeze  and  a 
moonshiner's  "crib"  —  for  those  who  knew  where  to 
look  —  could  be  descried  within  the  "bresh." 

As  they  ascended,  penetrating  yet  farther  into  the 
hidden  places,  the  scenery  became  more  wild  and 
rugged.  About  them,  giant  rocks  lay  piled;  be- 
neath were  yawning  chasms.  Nature  grew  silent  and 
the  solemnity  of  the  forest  enfolded  them;  even  the 
bird-songs  were  hushed ;  —  only  the  plaintive  song 
of  the  pines  was  heard. 

Skilfully  skirting  a  "blow-down"  —  an  accumula- 
tion of  rotting  trunks  and  forest-debris,  beneath 
which  may  very  well  lurk  a  fathomless  grave  —  they 
left  the  now  faintly  indicated  log-road  and  proceeded 
directly  up  the  dry  bed  of  a  brook,  which,  rushing 
between  precipitous  rocks,  past  gaping  fissures,  had 
torn  for  itself  a  path  down  the  mountain.  Presently 
they  emerged  upon  the  top. 

"Land-a-livin' !  Lindy,"  gasped  Joan  as  she 
dropped  panting  upon  the  rock  and  proceeded  to 
mop  her  heated  face,  "to  think  of  havin'  to  live  clear 
up  yere  on  the  top  —  this  a-ways !  Huh !"  she  con- 


42  LINDY  LOYD 

tinued,  emphatically,  "Hit  wouldn't  be  me !  the  last 
man  on  the  face  of  the  earth  wouldn't  be  good  enough 
for  me  to  foller  up  yere! —  No  sir-e-e-!  —  Poor 
Neelie  —  "  she  added. 

But  Lindy  was  dreaming  dreams.  "Maybe  she 
loved  him,  Aunt  Joan,"  she  said,  softly. 

Joan  glanced  sharply  at  the  unconscious  girl. 
"Don't  tell  me  it  is  Hass  Hicks,  Lindy,"  she  broke 
forth,  significantly. 

Lindy  turned  a  startled  face  to  Joan.  "Hass  — 
Hass  Hicks?  Oh,  no  —  it  isn't  Hass.  It  —  why  — 
it  isn't  anybody  —  at  least  —  "  she  stammered  in 
rosy  confusion. 

"Well  —  just  so  't  ain't  Hass,"  soothed  Joan ;  and 
silence  fell. 

"You-uns  ain't  never  told  me  —  yet,  'bout  that 
young  feller  as  saved  yer  life,  Lindy,  down  there  in 
Dark  Holler,"  Joan  went  on. 

"Didn't  —  didn't  Daddy  tell  you,  Aunt  Joan?" 

"Yep,  he  told  me;  but  I  reckoned  you-uns 
might  like  to  say  sumpin  'bout  't  yerself  —  mebbe," 
Joan  urged,  gently. 

And  Lindy  told  her. 

"You-uns  certainly  war  nigh  unto  death  that 
time,  Lindy,"  Joan  declared,  solemnly,  the  recital 
ended. 

"Yes,"  assented  the  girl. 

Presently  Joan  broke  out :  "Good-land !  but  I  wuz 
plum'  worried  'bout  you-uns  the  yuther  day  whenst 


LINDY  LOYD  43 

you  war  out  in  that  thunder-storm,  a-knowin'  just 
how  you  be.  That  makes  twict,  now,  that  young  feller, 
he  have  took  keer  of  you,  Lindy,"  she  concluded,  her 
eyes  upon  the  girl. 

"Yes  —  "  replied  Lindy,  the  lovely  color  sweeping 
over  her  face.  "Hugh  always  did  that  at  school  — 
Aunt  Joan  —  looked  after  me,"  she  added. 

Joan  sat  quiet,  her  brooding  gaze  upon  the  dis- 
tance. "Is  he  fit  —  is  he  fit,  Lindy?"  she  warned. 
"Sometimes  them  city  fellers  —  well  —  they're  no 
'count  at  all." 

"Hugh  —  he  is  very  nice  —  Aunt  Joan,"  laughed 
Lindy,  happily,  with  guileless  eyes  uplifted.  ' 

"Well  —  the  old  doctor,  he  war  a  nice  old  feller  — 
reckon  the  son  orter  be,  too,"  and  Joan  rose  to  go  on. 

The  Horns  lived  just  over  the  crest  of  the  moun- 
tain and  in  this  bleak,  inaccessible  spot  —  with  no 
road  but  the  bed  of  the  brook  —  they  had  lived, 
father  and  son,  for  generations.  Their  isolation  was 
inconceivable.  Shut  off  from  contact  with  their  kind 
they  became,  of  necessity,  but  a  reproduction  of  a  by- 
gone time ;  and  poorly  nourished,  illiterate,  supersti- 
tious, with  existence  bare  of  all  but  the  absolute 
necessaries  of  life  —  very  frequently  even  these  were 
absent  —  they  were  a  fair  representation  of  the 
poorer  class  of  mountain  whites. 

The  cabin  consisted  of  one  room,  built  directly 
against  a  huge  rock  which  also  helped  serve  the  pur- 
pose of  a  chimney.  The  cabin  was  of  logs,  its  crev- 


44  LINDY   LOYD 

ices  tightly  "chinked"  with  clay  and  stones ;  the  floor 
was  of  puncheon.  Directly  opposite  the  fireplace 
was  a  low,  battened  door ;  upon  the  outside,  as  a  pro- 
tection against  "hants"  was  sketched  a  frog's  foot, 
while  just  above,  for  the  reason,  hung  a  horse- 
shoe. On  each  side  of  the  cabin  was  a  small,  ba- 
tened  window ;  in  one  corner  was  the  loft-hole,  reached 
by  stout,  wooden  pegs  driven  into  auger-holes.  A 
table,  chair  and  three  beds  —  rough,  box-like  affairs 
filled  with  dried  grass  —  completed  the  furnishings, 
all  of  which  were  home-made,  cumbersome  and  smoke- 
blackened. 

Directly  over  the  door,  placed  upon  two  wooden 
pins  —  where  it  had  probably  rested  for  generations 
—  was  an  old-fashioned  flint-lock,  or  gun,  with  the 
use  of  which  the  mountain-woman  is  expected  to  be 
familiar;  below,  hung  the  powder-horn  and  shot- 
pouch  ;  nearby  hung  the  bull-harness  —  the  bull 
taking  the  place  of  horse  or  mule  in  the  work  of  the 
farm.  A  "flitch"  of  bacon,  one  or  two  pieces  of 
"hawg-meat"  and  a  few  articles  representing  posi- 
tive necessities,  hung  from  the  blackened  rafters. 
Upon  the  table  and  ranged  upon  a  shelf  running 
along  one  side  of  the  cabin  was  a  scanty  array  of 
battered  dishes  and  cooking  utensils. 

Outside  the  cabin  stood  the  big  iron  pot  —  a  fam- 
ily possession  for  generations;  nearby,  was  a  home- 
made trough,  or  tub,  a  clothes-pounder  and  a  rough 
bench.  Roaming  about  the  place  were  a  number  of 


LINDY   LOYD  45 

scrawny  chickens  and  a  couple  of  fat,  fine,  "mash- 
fed"  hogs.  These,  with  the  before-mentioned  bull, 
a  gaunt  looking  cow,  a  family  of  kittens  and  a  dog 
—  chained  to  an  inverted  barrel  —  comprised  the 
domestic  animals. 

Just  below  the  cabin  a  merry  mountain  stream 
went  racing  on  its  way.  Following  along  its  banks 
one  might  —  or  might  not  —  come  upon  a  certain 
"crib-like"  structure  carefully  hidden  within  the 
"bresh."  In  any  case,  it  was  a  matter  to  be  strictly 
ignored. 

As  has  been  stated  the  mountain  girl  marries 
young  —  and  fades  in  like  manner.  Neelie  Horn's 
lot  had  been  no  exception  to  this  general  rule.  Feeble, 
emaciated,  snuff-stick  in  mouth,  she  met  Joan  and 
Lindy  at  the  door. 

After  the  customary  greetings  and  inquiries  had 
been  interchanged,  Lindy  coaxed  the  troop  of  hun- 
gry-looking children  outside  and  the  two  women  were 
left  alone. 

For  a  moment  neither  spoke  —  Neelie  sat  gazing 
hopelessly  before  her.  "What's  hit,  Neelie?"  Joan 
began,  presently. 

"Oh  —  nuthin  —  Joan,"  was  the  despairing  reply. 

"But  tell  me,  Neelie,"  Joan  persisted,  softly  plac- 
ing her  hand  upon  Neelie's. 

Yielding  to  the  sympathy  so  sweetly  proffered, 
Neelie  burst  forth :  "Look  at  me,  Joan  —  just  look 
at  me!  thin,  bent,  teeth  all  gone  —  an  old  wumman, 


46  LINDY  LOYD 

just  ready  to  drop  into  the  grave  —  an'  me  not  yet 
turned  twenty-eight!  Think  of  it!" 

Joan  pressed  her  hand,  sympathetically. 

"An  who's  a-goin  to  keer  for  the  children  whenst 
I'm  gone,  Joan?"  she  demanded.  "That's  what's 
a-worryin  me!" 

A  paroxysm  of  coughing  intervened. 

"An  hit's  most  time  for  the  next  one,  Joan,"  Neelie 
went  on,  presently,  "an  there  ain't  'nough  for  them 
as  is  yere  now  —  never  has  been  'nough  —  never!" 
she  cried.  "That's  why  my  babby  died,  last  winter, 
Joan,  just  kez  there  wan't  'nough  for  'im  to  eat,  nor 
'nough  to  keep  'im  warm.  Dear  God !  —  what  I've 
been  through  with,  up  yere.  Nobody  knows  —  no- 
body!" and  the  poor  soul  rocked  in  wild-eyed  misery. 

"Go  on,  Neelie  —  tell  me  all  of  't,"  urged  Joan. 

"Hit's  ter'ble  lonesome  up  yere,  Joan  —  you  don't 
know.  Kem  times  whenst  I  felt  I  couldn't  stand  't 
another  minute.  An  —  an  that  ain't  all,  Joan,"  her 
voice  a  whisper,  "there's  hants  —  hants !  —  an  I've 
been  so  a-feard  —  Dear  God !  how  a-feard  I've  been ! 
—  Mebbe  if  I  war  well  —  oh  —  I  don't  know.  Reckon 
I'm  clear  plum'  tired  out,  Joan."  And  Neelie  sobbed, 
helplessly. 

But  long  ere  this  the  arms  of  the  elder  woman 
were  about  her  and  they  sobbed  it  out  together. 

"Joan,  I  must  have  been  clean  plum'  crazy  —  to 
take  on  so,"  cried  Neelie,  as  they  said  good-by  later 
in  the  afternoon.  "Reckon  it  war  the  sight  of  an- 


LINDY  LOYD  47 

other  wumman   as   set   me   a-goin;   anyways,  I   am 
moughty  glad  yo-alls  kem  by." 

"Hit's  a  dog's  life,  Lindy  —  hit's  a  dog's  life," 
declared  Joan  as  they  hurried  down  the  mountain. 
"An  Neelie  Horn!  well  —  she  war  just  the  purtiest 
girl  anywhere  'round  the  hull  neighborhood  about 
thirteen  years  a-gone:  red  cheeks,  curls  a-flyin'  an 
the  purtiest,  whitest  teeth ;  and  she  wuz  always 
a-laughin';  an'  dance!  —  well,  the  boys  war  just 
crazy  over  her.  Then  —  along  kem  Sam  Horn. 
That's  all  there  wuz  to  't.  Sam,  he  carried  her  off  to 
the  top  of  the  mountain  an  nobody  ain't  seen  her 
since  —  hardly.  She  went  right  into  't  —  babbies, 
f  armwork  an  all.  Took  the  babbies  out  into  the  field 
with  'er  an  set  'em  down  to  play  whiles  she  worked ; 
so  she  told  me. 

"An  the  dreadful  lonesomeness  up  there,  Lindy  — 
way  off  from  everybody,"  Joan  began  again.  "Kem 
trouble  —  an  they've  buried  two  or  three  children  — 
ain't  nobody  to  help  —  nobody!  just  got  to  fight  't 
out  alone.  An  then  the  long  nights,  Lindy,  an'  — 
an  the  hants,"  concluded  Joan,  her  voice  a  small 
whisper. 

"Yes  —  it  is  lonesome,"  Lindy  agreed ;  and  they 
unconsciously  quickened  their  steps. 

"Wisht  we-uns  had  a-started  down  earlier,"  mut- 
tered Joan,  glancing  apprehensively  around,  "Hit's 
a-gettin*  too  late  for  -—  " 
,     "Hist!"  breathed  Lindy,  suddenly. 


48  LINDY  LOYD 

"What  —  where  —  "  choked  Joan. 

"There!"  and  Lindy  indicated  a  gloomy  looking 
cavern  directly  in  their  path.  Was  it  fancy?  —  was 
there  a  movement  —  a  sound,  within  its  murky 
depths  ? 

The  two  women  never  knew.  With  pulses  hammer- 
ing in  their  ears,  eyes  wide  with  fright,  they  hurried 
lightly  by  and  presently,  taking  to  their  heels,  were 
well  down  the  mountain  and  within  sight  of  human 
habitation  before  either  ventured  a  word  —  a  back- 
ward look. 

"Land-sakes !"  panted  Joan,  as  they  finally  paused, 
"betweenst  the  hants  an  —  an  —  what  you-uns 
reckon  that  wuz,  Lindy,  back  there?"  she  demanded. 
"Sounded  just  like  —  " 

"Did  you  hear  it,  too,  Aunt  Joan?" 

"Heerd  sumpin  that  sounded  just  like  a  young 
painter  —  that's  what !"  replied  Joan,  "an  there 
mought  as  well  be  a  hull  family  there,  as  not,  Lindy," 
she  added ;  and  silence  fell. 

"Daddy  won't  like  it  that  we  came  down  so  late," 
declared  Lindy,  as  they  hastened  on. 

"No,  he  won't  like  hit,"  reiterated  Joan  tersely ; 
and  in  this  surmise  they  were  entirely  correct. 

"Hit  ain't  fit  for  you-alls  to  be  out  on  the  moun- 
tain this  a-ways,"  Mitry  chided,  receiving  their  tale. 
"Joan,"  angrily,  "you-uns  must  have  been  clear 
plum'  crazy  to  start  down  so  late." 

"Yes  —  Mitry,  I  bodaciously  war,"  meekly. 


LINDY  LOYD  49 

"But  Daddy  —  we're  here  all  right,"  began  Lindy, 
"and  —  " 

"But  you  moughtn't  have  been,"  interrupted 
Mitry.  "In  course  that  war  a  painter  —  'bliged  to 
be,"  he  went  on.  Somebody  shot  one  of  them  var- 
mints—  here  —  just  the  other  day  —  but  't  war 
the  male.  An  Hass,  he  war  a-tellin  that  Hite  Cronce 
had  found  a  young  one  and  carried  it  hum  —  that 
war  yesterday.  There's  bound  to  be  a  hull  nest  of 
'em  up  there  on  the  mountain.  Kite's  a  plum* 
fool  —  a-huntin  up  trouble  that  a-ways,"  he  added. 


CHAPTER     IX 

THAT  lantern-show  up  to  the  schoolhouse  kerns 
off  to-night,  Mitry,"  reminded  Joan.  This 
was  directly  after  breakfast. 

"Yes,  Daddy  —  it  does,"  called  Lindy,  following 
him  out  upon  the  porch. 

Mitry  lighted  his  pipe  in  silence.  "Be  you-alls 
a-callatin'  to  go?"  he  inquired,  presently. 

"Of  course  we're  goin,  Daddy  —  and  you're  goin, 
too,"  she  added,  saucily. 

Mitry's  eyes  twinkled.  "Well  —  "  he  pondered, 
"they's  expectin  me  up  at  the  'lorrels'  to  night  —  " 
another  and  a  larger  "still,"  worked  in  partnership 
with  three  other  men  —  "but  if  you-alls  air  a-goin 
to  the  schoolhouse,  reckon  I'm  just  nacherly  'bliged 
to  go  long."  And  gathering  up  his  mash-pails  Mitry 
took  the  accustomed  trail  up  the  bed  of  the  brook. 

The  entertainment  given  that  evening  at  the 
schoolhouse  was  calculated  to  appeal  especially  to 
the  mountaineer  and  the  place  was  well  filled.  Al- 
though the  facilities  for  the  success  of  the  enterprise 
were  distinctly  primitive,  the  undertaking  was  well 
managed,  the  pictures  cleverly  chosen  and  elucidated, 

50 


LINDY  LOYD  51 

and  the  person  in  charge  —  evidently  familiar  with 
the  characteristics  of  a  mountain  gathering  —  re- 
mained perfectly  undisturbed  by  the  appreciation 
of  his  audience,  as  expressed  by  their  frequent  frank 
and  audible  comments. 

Among  the  scenes  shown  was  a  striking  repre- 
sentation of  the  rescue  of  a  young  girl  from  a  burn- 
ing building.  To  Hass  Hicks,  dominated  by  his 
passion  for  Lindy,  filled  with  jealousy  and  misgiv- 
ings, the  picture  of  the  handsome,  stalwart  man, 
within  whose  arms  the  girl  lay,  could  but  suggest 
another  scene  —  that  of  Hugh  Humphrey's  recent 
succor  of  Lindy. 

To  this  untoward  occurrence,  Hass  attributed 
Lindy's  present  attitude  and  his  own  disquiet. 
Leaning  nonchalantly  against  the  side  of  the  build- 
ing, hands  jammed  fiercely  into  the  depths  of  his 
pockets,  hat  pulled  low  over  his  glowering  eyes,  his 
pipe  grinding  between  his  teeth,  Hass  watched  the 
unconscious  girl. 

With  heightened  color  and  quick,  indrawn  breath, 
Lindy  leaned  forward  and  gazed  upon  the  picture, 
absorbed;  her  radiant  eyes  and  parted  lips  only 
too  suggestive  of  visions  of  her  own.  And  Hass 
cursed,  silently. 

Returning  down  the  trail  the  Loyds  were  joined 
by  Mrs.  Hicks  and  Hass  —  the  latter  placing  him- 
self immediately  at  Lindy's  side. 

"I  see  the  Cove  folkses  —  they  kem  up  to  the 


52  LINDY  LOYD 

show,"  began  Mrs.  Hicks;  "an  Miz  Rogan  an  Si 
Etter,  they-alls  war  there." 

"An  Hen  Crum's  folkses  an  the  Pralls's  —  they 
kem  down  the  trail,"  said  Joan. 

"Yep  —  an  the  Tuttles's  an  the  Allers's,  too," 
continued  Mrs.  Hicks. 

"Yep  —  they's  all  there.  Tain't  often  we-alls 
gets  a  chanct  at  pictures,  anyways,"  Joan  replied. 

"There'll  be  a  right  smart  passel  to  go  back  up 
the  mountain  —  " 

"An  none  too  big  a  crowd  if  there's  to  be  any 
painters  around,"  interrupted  Joan. 

"Hass,  have  Hite  shot  that  kitten  he  brung  down 
from  the  mountain  yet?"  Mitry  inquired. 

"Nope,"  was  the  reply.  "Hite  he  war  a-sayin' 
that  the  children,  they's  got  so  fond  of  the  leetle 
critter  that  he  just  nacherly  hates  to  shoot  't." 

"Well  —  Hite  Cronce,  he  must  be  'bout  ready 
for  the  fool-house !"  exploded  Mitry.  "First  thing 
we-alls  knows  there'll  be  heaps  of  trouble.  Them 
painters,  they  be  great  for  trackin,  you-uns  knows 
that,  Hass?" 

"Yep  —  that's  so,"  Hass  agreed. 

"Good-land-er-Goshen !  we-alls  don't  want  no 
painters  a-roamin  'round  the  neighborhood,"  cried 
Joan. 

"A  painter's  a  moughty  ugly  critter  to  deal  with," 
added  Mrs.  Hicks,  her  eyes  searching  the  darkness. 

"Hen   Crum,  he   war   a-tellin  to-night   that   the 


LINDY  LOYD  53 

boys  had  been  out  on  the  mountain  a-lookin  for  the 
old  one,"  Hass  went  on.  "Queer !  —  'bout  that 
painter !  Ain't  heerd  of  a  painter  this  long  whiles." 

"Ye  hain't?"  jeered  Mitry.  "Well  —  somebody 
shot  one  up  there  just  'bout  a  month  a-gone;  to 
say  nuthin  'bout  that'n  as  was  shot  the  other  day; 
—  an  Trim  Aller,  he  'lowed  to  me  that  they's  been 
up  there,  off  and  on,  always.  Shucks !"  angrily, 
"the  hull  bunch  had  orter  been  cleared  out  long  an 
long  ago ;  I,  for  one,  ain't  a-pinin  to  get  shet  of 
none  of  my  cattle-critters." 

Since  Hass's  recent  and  ardent  ebullition,  the 
intercourse  between  himself  and  Lindy  had  of  neces- 
sity been  somewhat  strained.  In  the  case  of  Lindy, 
the  occurrence  had  resulted  in  such  a  complete  clar- 
ifying of  her  relations  with  Hass  as  to  effectually 
preclude  any  possibility  of  the  renewal  of  his  suit. 
Hass,  however,  disregarding  the  utter  lack  of  en- 
couragement given,  persisted  in  his  attentions,  trust- 
ing that  time  would  reinstate  him  in  her  favor. 

Tonight,  however,  resentful  of  Lindy's  indiffer- 
ence, his  fears  renewed  by  the  incident  connected 
with  the  picture,  Hass's  smouldering  jealousy  again 
burst  into  flame. 

"I  seen  yuh  to-night,  Lindy  —  whenst  yuh  war 
a-lookin  at  that  fire-picture,"  he  cried,  miserably, 
lingering  outside  the  gate. 

Lindy's  head  went  up  and  a  flash  of  color  suffused 
her  face. 


54  LINDY  LOYD 

"You-uns  didn't  know  it,"  Hass  went  on,  bitterly, 
"but  I  wuz  a-watchin  yuh —  /  wuz  a-watchin  yuh 
all  the  time." 

Lindy  remained  disdainfully  silent. 

"Damn !  —  damn  that  fire-picture !"  he  exploded, 
angered  at  the  girl's  attitude. 

Lindy's  eyes  blazed. 

"Mebbe  you-uns  think  I  don't  know  just  what 
war  in  yer  mind,  Lindy,"  he  ground  out,  thrusting 
his  face  into  hers,  "but  I  knowed  —  I  knowed  what  't 
war  yuh  wuz  a-wishin ;  —  an  the  purty  color  a-comin 
an  a-goin  all  the  time.  —  God !"  —  desperately. 
Then,  swept  onward  by  the  force  of  his  passion, 
reckless  as  to  result,  he  blazed:  "Yuh  war  a-wishin 
hit  wuz  yuh  an  that  dad-blasted  city  feller  — 
again ;  —  now  wan't  yuh?  —  eh  —  tell  me !" 

But  Lindy  was  safe  in  the  shelter  of  the  house. 


CHAPTER     X 

IT  was  the  occasion  of  Lindy's  weekly  reading 
with  Miss  Lucie  Simmons ;  —  and  having  fin- 
ished and  discussed  the  usual  assignment,  the 
two  friends  were  enjoying  the  relaxation  of  a  bit  of 
gossip;  Lindy,  meanwhile,  availing  herself  of  an 
opportunity  for  an  instruction  in  needle-work. 

"Did  you  say  that  Hugh  Humphrey  was  a  native 
of  Dark  Hollow,  Lindy?"  Miss  Lucie  began. 

"Yes,  he  was  born  here." 

"He  —  he  is  rather  unusual  —  for  an  attendant," 
Miss  Lucie  went  on,  "gentle,  refined  in  manner  —  in 
fact,  Lindy,  he  is  so  much  of  a  gentleman  that  I  find 
great  difficulty  in  ordering  him  about.  I  find  myself 
frequently  addressing  him  as  Dr.  Humphrey  —  while 
as  for  being  carried,  or  lifted  —  well  —  " 

"Yes  —  tell  me,"  breathed  Lindy. 

"Well  —  then  —  I  have  never  been  lifted  so  care- 
fully —  so  —  so  —  well,  so  nicely ;  never!  —  He 
certainly  does  know  how,"  she  added,  her  eyes  retro- 
spective. 

"Oh,  yes  —  yes  indeed!  he  does  know  how,"  echoed 
Lindy,  fervently. 

"Lindy !  —  why  —  what    is    it?  —  what    do    you 

55 


56  LINDY  LOYD 

know  about  it?"  demanded  Miss  Lucie,  her  startled 
gaze  upon  the  girl  who  sat  with  parted  lips,  ab- 
sorbed, her  guileless  face  alight  with  comprehension. 
And  for  a  moment  the  two  regarded  each  other  in 
speaking  silence. 

"I  am  afraid  I  have  kept  you  too  long,  Lindy  — 
you  must  be  home  before  dark,"  said  Miss  Lucie, 
later,  her  eyes  upon  the  setting  sun. 

"Yes,  Daddy  won't  let  me  be  out  on  the  mountain 
after  dark,"  responded  the  girl,  gaily,  as  she  gath- 
ered up  her  books  and  prepared  to  depart,  "but 
there  is  time  —  and  I  am  not  in  the  least  afraid." 

Nevertheless,  the  shadows  had  lengthened  consid- 
erably and  the  quiet  of  night  was  settling  down 
when  Lindy  reached  the  old  lumber-camp.  She  had 
planned  to  enter  the  cave  on  her  way  up  the  trail,  in 
order  to  secure  'Lucille'  which  had  been  again  for- 
gotten; and  although  the  cave  would  be  wrapped 
in  gloom  at  that  hour,  she  trusted  to  her  sense  of 
touch  in  finding  it.  In  any  case,  the  experiment 
would  take  but  a  second  and  dropping  her  package 
of  books  by  the  entrance,  Lindy  hurried  through  the 
fissure  and  was  soon  inside. 

Lindy  had  not  been  within  the  cave  since  the  occa- 
sion of  the  thunder-storm  and  her  thoughts  imme- 
diately reverted  to  that  incident.  "It  should  be  right 
here,"  she  murmured,  passing  her  fingers  lightly 
over  the  rocky  floor.  Failing  to  find  the  book,  Lindy 
dropped  upon  her  knees  and  searched  carefully. 


LINDY  LOYD  57 

At  this  moment  the  girl  became  conscious  of  a 
peculiar,  an  indescribable  odor  of  which  she  had 
been  vaguely  aware  upon  first  entering  the  cave.  At 
the  same  instant  —  was  that  a  breath  —  a  move- 
ment, yonder?  —  and  a  tiny,  furry  thing  —  with  a 
bit  of  rope  tied  to  its  neck  —  rolled  over  towards 
her. 

Faint,  sick  with  apprehension,  Lindy  rose  and  con- 
centrated her  gaze  upon  the  far  corner  of  the  cave 
to  meet  the  steady,  unwinking  glare  of  two  balls  of 
fire;  and  knew  that  she  was  menaced  by  the 
panther  —  "That  old  one  —  "  who,  according  to 
her  father's  prediction,  had  evidently  tracked  and 
recovered  her  kitten  and  was  now,  presumably,  on 
her  way  back  to  some  hidden  fastness  of  the  moun- 
tain. 

For  one  awful  moment  Lindy  was  overwhelmed 
by  the  horror  of  the  situation.  "Dear  God!"  she 
panted,  everything  reeling  about  her,  "is  there  no 
help  ?  Must  I  die  —  here  —  alone  with  this  loath- 
some beast?"  Then  all  the  splendid  courage,  the 
strong,  self-reliant  spirit  of  the  girl  arose  to  meet 
this  terrible  emergency  —  to  do  battle  with  this 
hideous  foe  so  greedily,  nay,  so  confidently  awaiting 
her  surrender. 

But  how  could  she,  a  frail,  young  girl,  singly  and 
alone,  protect  herself  from  the  angry  beast  —  ren- 
dered yet  more  infuriated  by  the  presence  of  her 
young? 


58  LINDY  LOYD 

Had  she  her  revolver  with  her  —  her  one  slender 
chance  for  life?  Lindy  had  no  recollection  of  it, 
although  Daddy  had  urged  her  never  to  be  without 
it;  and  in  the  meantime  the  horrible  beast  was 
worming  itself  slowly  but  certainly  towards  her. 

Not  daring  for  her  life  to  move  —  fearing  to 
precipitate  the  fatal  leap  —  Lindy's  hand  stole 
slowly  to  her  bosom.  Ah,  yes !  —  thank  God !  the 
tiny  weapon  was  there  and  the  girl's  fingers  closed 
quietly  and  steadily  about  it.  Yes  —  oh,  yes !  there 
was  a  chance  for  her  life  —  if  she  could  deliver  an  ac- 
curate, death-dealing  blow;  and  never  removing  her 
eyes  from  the  malignant,  creeping  thing  now  almost 
upon  her,  Lindy  braced  herself  for  the  encounter. 

It  was  almost  time,  now.  Lindy  could  see  the  red, 
gaping  jaws,  could  smell  the  fetid  breath.  "Now! 
—  oh  —  now!  —  Dear  God  —  guide  my  aim  —  "  she 
cried;  and  as  the  panther  gathered  itself  for  the 
deadly  leap,  the  report  of  the  revolver  rang  out. 
With  a  scream  of  rage  the  panther  flung  itself  upon 
the  brave  girl  —  and  the  two  went  down  together. 

"Lindy  —  my  God!  —  Lindy  —  where  are  you?" 
shouted  Hugh  Humphrey,  frantically;  and  he 
stumbled  blindly  into  the  cave.  But  there  came  no 
response  to  his  call. 

Hugh  had  followed  immediately  up  the  trail 
hoping  to  overtake  the  girl.  As  he  reached  the  old 
camp  the  report  of  the  revolver,  succeeded  by  the 
angry  screech  of  the  panther,  fell  upon  his  ear. 


LINDY  LOYD  59 

"Lindy  —  Lindy !  —  Great  God !"  he  gasped. 
Pursuing  the  direction  indicated  by  those  sounds  of 
terror,  Hugh  came  upon  the  package  of  books  and 
plunged  immediately  into  the  fissure,  weapon  in 
hand. 

For  a  second  he  stood  dumbly  within  the  darkness 
of  the  cave,  overwhelmed  by  the  sense  of  an  awful 
deed  enacted  —  by  the  terrifying  odor  of  spilt 
blood.  Soon,  however,  a  shadowy  heap  outlined  it- 
self within  the  gloom;  and  he  sprang  forward. 

Lindy  was  lying  as  she  had  fallen,  with  the  great 
beast  partly  over  her.  Hurling  the  panther  aside, 
Hugh  tenderly  lifted  the  girl  and  carried  her  out- 
side, where,  ascertaining  that  life  remained,  he  de- 
voted all  his  efforts  to  her  resuscitation. 

"Oh  —  my  little  girl  —  my  little  sweetheart !"  he 
cried,  passionately,  overcome  by  the  horror  of  the 
situation  —  by  the  supreme  realization  of  his  love. 

After  a  time  the  heavy  lids  lifted  and  Lindy's  eyes 
looked  dully  forth.  Then  came  awakening  percep- 
tion and  with  a  shiver  of  terror  the  girl  relapsed  into 
unconsciousness.  Presently,  however,  reason  re- 
sumed its  control  and  Lindy  slowly  opened  her  eyes 
to  meet  Hugh's  compassionate  gaze. 

"Hugh?"  she  began,  wonderingly,  then  —  clutch- 
ing him  frantically,  horror  in  her  eyes  —  she  gasped : 
"Oh  —  where  —  where  is  it  —  where  is  the  pan- 
ther —  " 

Hugh's  arms  closed  quietly  and  firmly  about  her. 


60  LINDY   LOYD 

"The  panther  is  dead  —  Lindy  —  quite  dead,"  he 
soothed. 

Dry  sobs  shook  the  girl.  "Oh  —  oh  —  and  I  was 
all  alone  —  "  she  pleaded ;  and  shuddering,  Lindy 
hid  her  face  within  Hugh's  breast. 

Hugh's  face  was  ashen.  "I  know  —  Lindy !  — 
God  —  God  —  if  I  had  lost  you  —  "  he  murmured 
as  he  folded  her  yet  closer. 

And  indeed  Lindy's  preservation  was  little  short 
of  miraculous.  Aside  from  the  frightful  experience 
and  an  ugly  tear  down  her  arm,  where  the  cruel 
claws  had  ploughed  their  way,  she  had  escaped, 
wonderfully. 

Overcome  by  the  fact  that  her  life  must  hang  upon 
the  success  of  that  single  shot,  Lindy  had  yielded  to 
merciful  unconsciousness  immediately  upon  its  ac- 
complishment and  in  falling,  swerved  from  the 
panther's  direct  attack. 


CHAPTER    XI 

NOT  many  days  after  the  terrible  occurrence 
in  the  cave,  Lindy  and  Hugh,  again  at  the 
old  camp,  declared  themselves  lovers  for  all 
time.  Seated  beneath  the  shade  of  the  old  pine  they 
discussed  many  things :  the  sale  of  Hugh's  old  home 
and  his  arrangements  for  his  mother's  comfort;  his 
plans  for  the  continuation  of  his  medical  course  — 
including  his  dream  of  study  abroad ;  also,  the  dearer, 
more  personal  matter  of  their  love  —  their  future 
as  husband  and  wife.  As  marriage,  in  Hugh's  pres- 
ent circumstances,  must  of  necessity  be  a  matter  for 
the  future,  they  agreed  to  keep  the  anniversary  of 
this  happy  occasion  by  a  solemn  compact  to  seek 
the  old  camp,  either  singly  or  together  as  circum- 
stances would  allow,  and  within  this  same  hour  to 
there  recall  their  vows;  the  signal  agreed  upon  to 
be  the  thrice  repeated  call  of  the  whippoorwill. 

"You  —  you  will  go  back  North  in  the  early  fall, 
Hugh?"  the  girl  queried,  sadly. 

"Yes  —  I  must.    There  is  no  other  way,  Lindy." 
"No,  Hugh,  there  is  no  other  way,"  Lindy  reit- 
erated ;  and  the  two  sat  silent,  mentally  facing  those 
days  of  separation. 

61 


62  LINDY  LOYD 

Presently  Lindy  began,  haltingly,  her  eyes  wist- 
ful :  "I  —  I  have  always  missed  my  mother  —  so  — 
Hugh ;  —  have  so  longed  for  her.  I  wonder  —  I 
wonder  will  your  mother  —  will  she  like  me  — 
Hugh?" 

"Like  you  —  Lindy?"  and  Hugh  crushed  the  girl 
to  him,  "my  mother  cannot  help  it!"  he  declared. 
And  Lindy  was  satisfied. 

"And  it's  only  one  week  ago,  Hugh,"  pondered 
Lindy,  "since  you  first  —  I  mean  since  I  —  I 
mean  —  "  and  she  faltered  in  adorable  confusion. 

Hugh  winced.  "Ah,  little  girl,"  he  cried,  his  voice 
tense,  "when  I  remember  how  near  I  came  to  losing 
you  —  " 

"But  Hugh  —  don't  remember  it,"  Lindy  inter- 
rupted, gaily.  "It  can't  happen  again  —  it  cannot! 
Daddy  has  had  the  cave  burned  out  and  closed." 

"But  there  are  other  caves  on  the  mountain," 
Hugh  persisted,  gloomily. 

"Yes  —  there  are  others ;  —  and  I  have  been  in 
and  out  of  them  scores  of  times.  Come  to  think, 
Hugh,"  she  continued,  demurely,  her  eyes  provok- 
ingly  downcast,  "I  am  obliged  to  explore  one  of 
those  caves  —  well  —  um  —  tomorrow,  I  think  it  is." 

"Lindy,"  —  authoritatively  —  "I  want  you  to 
keep  out  of  the  caves!  —  Hear?"  but  Lindy's  an- 
swer, though  wordless,  was  bewitchingly  perverse. 

"Lindy,"  and  Hugh  seized  the  girl's  hands,  his 


LINDY  LOYD  63 

face  close  to  hers,  "promise  me  that  you  will  enter 
none  of  the  caves !  —  promise  me  —  right  now!" 

And  Lindy,  lifting  sweet,  trustful  eyes,  answered: 
"I  promise  —  Hugh."    And  Hugh  was  content. 


CHAPTER    XII 

KEM,  Peter"  coaxed  Joan,  taking  down  her 
sun-bonnet,  "I'm  a-goin  up  to  the  widder's." 
But  Peter  needed  no  urging.  He  was  like 
a  dog  in  his  delight  in  following.  In  fact,  it  was 
frequently  necessary  —  when  his  company  was  not 
desired  —  either  to  steal  away,  quietly,  or  to  fasten 
him  in  the  house.  This  time,  however,  Peter  was 
regularly  invited  to  go  along,  and  with  his  tail 
proudly  erect  he  trotted  decorously  near  his  mis- 
tress ;  —  when  not  called  suddenly  far  afield  upon 
excursions  of  his  own. 

Peter  was  a  mighty  hunter.  Nothing  within 
reach  appeared  able  to  escape  his  cruel  claws.  He 
hunted  for  the  love  of  it  —  not  to  appease  his  hun- 
ger and,  as  if  vain  of  his  prowess,  generally  carried 
his  spoils  to  Joan  —  frequently  to  her  great  distress. 
In  fact,  his  indulgence  in  this  feline  characteristic 
was  a  matter  of  much  concern  to  his  tender-hearted 
mistress. 

"Now,  what  have  yuh  got?"  she  demanded,  as 
Peter  came  racing  back  from  one  of  his  wild  scur- 
ries with  a  little  shrieking  bundle  of  fur  held  in  his 
mouth.  "I  'clar  fo  't,  Peter  —  I  have  a  great  mind 

64 


LINDY  LOYD  65 

to  beat  yer  bonnit !  —  good'n  hard,  too !"  she  chided, 
receiving  his  offering. 

It  proved  to  be  a  baby-rabbit,  soft  and  brown  and 
perfectly  formed,  although  so  tiny :  —  with  wide- 
open,  fear-stricken  eyes  and  slender,  silky  ears  lying 
close  to  its  head.  Fortunately  it  was  very  little  hurt, 
if  at  all;  and  Peter  having  gone  on  another  quest, 
Joan  hid  the  beautiful  little  creature  within  the 
shelter  of  the  bushes. 

"Now  just  exactly  what  do  yuh  s'pose  that  is, 
Peter,  a-settin  up  there  on  Brackie's  fence?"  Joan 
exclaimed,  halting  suddenly. 

Peter  immediately  lay  down  in  the  road  to  wait. 

"Looks  sumpin  like  Brackie,"  Joan  went  on,  her 
eyes  glued  upon  the  object,  "but  reckon  it's  nuthin 
but  a  skeer-crow.  "Kem  on,  Peter  —  kem !"  she 
called.  But  Peter  sat  stolidly  in  the  middle  of  the 
road  and  refused  to  move. 

"Never  can  get  Peter  into  the  widder's,"  muttered 
Joan;  "spose  he  thinks  he's  got  good  reason  for 
a-keepin  out;  —  pan  of  dish-water,  just  like  as  not. 
Why  —  what  —  For-the-land's-sake !  that  is  Brackie, 
up  there  on  the  fence!"  and  struck  by  a  nameless 
something  in  Mrs.  Hicks'  attitude,  Joan  hurried  on. 

"What's  the  matter,  Brackie?"  she  called,  "why 
don't  yuh  get  down?  —  thought,  first,  hit  war  a 
skeer-crow.  Why  —  why  where's  yer  feet?"  By 
this  time  Joan  was  standing  before  Mrs.  Hicks,  who, 
white  and  exhausted,  her  eyes  glued  upon  the  ground, 


66  LINDY  LOYD 

was  balanced  precariously  upon  the  fence  with  her 
feet  upon  the  rail  directly  beneath ;  —  her  position 
strongly  suggestive  of  a  nearly  closed  jack-knife. 

"What's  down  there,  Brackie?  —  what  are  yuh 
a-lookin  at,  anyways?"  Joan  went  on.  As  Mrs. 
Hicks  made  no  reply  whatsoever,  Joan  burst  forth: 
"Brack  Hicks,  you-uns  get  right  down  off  that  fence 
—  right  aways !  —  before  yuh  fall  off !" 

"I  can't,"  replied  Mrs.  Hicks,  laconically,  her 
eyes  still  upon  the  ground. 

"What's  the  reason  yuh  can't?"  Joan  demanded. 

"Just  kez  ther's  a  great  big  moccasin  a-layin 
right  down  there,  clost  up  against  the  fence.  Joan 
—  oh,  Joan !"  she  shrieked,  suddenly,  "he's  a-turnin 
his  head  plum'  towards  you-uns  !  —  he's  gettin  ready 
to  kern  —  " 

"Good-land !"  exploded  Joan ;  and  at  the  imminent 
risk  of  dislodging  Brackie,  she,  too,  climbed  nimbly 
upon  the  rail.  "Where  is  it?"  she  shrilled. 

"Right  there  —  'long  the  fence !  —  an  has  been, 
this  long  whiles." 

"Sakes-alive !  but  he  is  a  big,  ugly  feller,  Brackie. 
I  never  see  such  a  big  one  —  never!" 

"Yep  —  he's  a  big  one,"  and  the  two  women  gazed 
warily  down. 

"Brackie,"  Joan  burst  forth,  presently,  "do  yuh 
reckon  we-uns  have  got  to  set  yere  till  that  reptile 
gets  ready  to  move  on?" 

"Looks  that  a-ways,"  was  the  grim  reply,  Mrs. 


LINDY  LOYD  67 

Hicks  rather  pleased  than  otherwise  at  the  rare  ex- 
perience of  getting  the  best  of  Joan.  "Tain't  noways 
comfo'table  settin,  nuther,"  she  added,  endeavoring 
to  ease  her  cramped  body  —  with  the  result  that  both 
women  were  nearly  precipitated  from  the  fence. 

A  series  of  silent,  frantic  struggles  for  equilibrium 
followed. 

"Brack  Hicks  — "  panted  Joan,  wrathfully, 
when,  white  and  trembling  the  two  had  succeeded  in 
righting  themselves,  "are  you-uns  a-callatin  to  land 
both  of  us  plum'  on  the  top  of  that  varmint?" 

But  the  long-suffering  Mrs.  Hicks  made  no  reply. 
Clinging  breathlessly  to  her  yet  vibrating  support 
she  glared  speechlessly  at  her  companion.  Evi- 
dently, for  her,  the  situation  had  reached  a  point 
beyond  discussion. 

"An  sposin  somebody  kerns  by!"  Joan  went  on, 
presently,  scanning  the  trail,  "why  —  we-alls'd  never 
hear  the  last  of  't,  Brackie  —  never  in  this  world! 
two  women  a-roostin  on  a  rail!"  she  cried,  scorn- 
fully. 

"Ain't  a-worryin  'bout  the  roostin  none,"  snapped 
the  much  distressed  Brackie,  "hit's  the  rail  as  is 
a-worryin  me,"  and  she  moved,  painfully.  "Reckon 
I  be  most  cut  in  two,"  she  added. 

"Good-land-a-livin !  Brack,"  shrilled  Joan,  her 
neck  craned  up  the  trail,  "somebody  is  a-kemin !  — 
right  now,  too !  —  an  —  an  —  "  her  excitement 
growing,  "he  looks  exactly  like  a  preacher !" 


68  LINDY  LOYD 

Mrs.  Hicks  stared  dully  at  Joan. 

"Now,  Brack  —  I'd  like  yuh  to  tell  me  what's  to 
be  done?"  and  Joan  turned  in  exasperation  to  her 
companion. 

But  Mrs.  Hicks  remained  silent. 

Joan  became  desperate.  Deaf  to  Brackie's  plead- 
ings and  to  her  own  safety  she  leaned  far  over  and 
rattled  her  heels  vigorously  against  the  rails,  calling 
"Shoo!  shoo!  shoo!"  But  the  moccasin,  his  beady 
eyes  shining  wickedly,  remained  perfectly  indifferent 
to  her  efforts. 

"Well  —  "  and  Joan  glanced  wildly  around,  "sum- 
pins  just  nacherly  got  to  be  done.  That  man'll  be 
round  the  bend  an  a-headin  this  way  inside  of  two 
minutes ;  —  an  I,  for  one,  ain't  a-pinin  to  have  him 
find  we-alls  a-teeterin  up  yere  on  this  fence.  Why 
of  course !  —  we-alls  are  plum'  fools,  Brack,"  she 
exclaimed,  suddenly;  and  to  the  certain  peril  of 
Brackie  and  herself,  Joan  reached  down  and  began 
to  untie  her  shoes. 

"Oh  —  be  keerful  —  be  keerful!"  begged  Mrs. 
Hicks.  "Joan  Loyd  —  yuh  keep  on  with  yer  antics 
an  yuh'll  have  us  both  plum'  onto  that  reptile  — 
sure  'nough!"  she  went  on,  angrily.  "What  fool 
thing  be  ye  a-callatin  to  do  —  anyways  ?" 

But  Joan  had  gone  beyond  all  kindly  considera- 
tion or  fear.  Jerking  off  her  shoes  she  rapped: 
"I'm  a-goin  to  fire  these  yere  plum'  at  the  dad-burned 
varmint  —  " 


LINDY  LOYD  69 

"Joan!"  severely. 

"Hit's  a  good  time  to  —  swear  —  a  —  leetle  — 
Brackie,"  cried  Joan,  grimly  punctuating  her  words 
with  her  foot-gear  as,  one  after  the  other,  they 
were  aimed  forcibly  and  effectively  at  the  offender 
beneath  the  fence.  And  the  moccasin  immediately 
trailed  his  loathsome  length  across  the  road  and  was 
lost  to  sight. 

"Had  orter  done  that  long  and  long  ago,"  Joan 
declared  as  she  dropped  upon  the  ground  and  hur- 
ried into  her  shoes.  "Why  don't  yuh  get  down, 
Brackie?"  she  called,  presently. 

"I  can't !  —  my  laigs,  they's  that  stiff  I  can't 
move  'em !  Oh  —  oh  —  "  and  Mrs.  Hicks  groaned, 
miserably. 

"Shucks !  Brackie,  yer  laigs,  they'll  limber  up  all 
right  —  once  yuh  get  on  'em,"  cheered  Joan.  "Bet- 
ter hurry  up  —  that  man'll  —  "  she  urged. 

"Don't  see  'im  yet  —  do  yuh?" 

"Nope  —  not  yet." 

With  many  a  plaint  and  contortion  Mrs.  Hicks 
vacated  the  rail.  As  she  slid  painfully  to  the  ground 
her  skirt  caught  upon  an  upstanding  knot.  "Tain't 
'nough  to  have  to  set  up  yere  'till  I  be  turned  plum' 
into  an  immage  —  but  I  must  be  hung-up,  too !"  she 
burst  forth,  yanking  at  the  offending  skirt.  But  the 
stout  homespun  refused  to  yield. 

Joan,  busy  with  her  shoes,  heard  the  sounds  of 
stress  and  conflict  behind  her.  "Don't  worry, 
Brackie  —  that  man,  he  won't  —  " 


70  LINDY  LOYD 

"That  man !  —  that  man!"  blazed  Mrs.  Hicks, 
completely  carried  away  by  her  annoying  mishap, 
"if  't  hadn't  been  for  'im  —  a-hurrying  of  me  —  so 
—  Oh  —  drat  't !  —  drat  't  —  I  say !"  struggling 
vainly  to  free  herself,  "Joan  —  Joan  —  just  look 
at  me !" 

Joan  turned,  quickly.  But  the  sudden  and  effec- 
tive picture  of  the  unfortunate  Mrs.  Hicks  was  too 
much  for  Joan  and  she  gave  way  to  her  mirth. 
"Good-land-a-Goshen !  Brack  —  but  you  do  look 
funny,"  she  cried. 

"Tain't  funny,  none,  to  me !"  Mrs.  Hicks  shrilled. 
"Joan  Loyd  —  be  I  to  dangle  yere  —  " 

But  Joan,  smothering  her  glee,  had  already  gone 
to  her  rescue.  "Oh  —  yuh  poor  —  poor  Brackie," 
she  soothed.  But  Joan's  efforts,  too,  proved  un- 
availing and  Brackie  remained  fastened  to  the  knot. 

"An  there  ain't  nuthin  to  laugh  at  —  nuther," 
she  insisted,  her  eyes  fastened  watchfully  upon 
Joan. 

"Of  course  there  ain't,  Brackie  —  nuthin'  't  all," 
choked  Joan. 

Finally,  by  dint  of  climbing  back  upon  the  fence, 
Joan  succeeded  in  releasing  Mrs.  Hicks  from  her 
ludicrous  situation.  But  alas  —  and  alas  !  in  union 
with  the  release  came  the  sudden,  downward  drag  — 
with  the  result  that  Joan  toppled  forward  upon  the 
doomed  Mrs.  Hicks  —  and  the  two  reached  the 
ground  together. 


LINDY  LOYD  71 

It  was  the  last  straw. 

Slowly  the  devoted  Mrs.  Hicks  rose  to  her  feet 
and  the  two  stood  for  a  moment  facing  each  other. 
But  there  were  no  words  to  fit  the  occasion  — 
neither  breath,  had  there  been  words  —  stony,  grim, 
Mrs.  Hicks  took  the  path  to  her  cabin. 

"Poor  —  poor  Brackie  —  she  is  plum'  tired  out !" 
Joan  burst  forth,  compassionately,  her  eyes  follow- 
ing her  friend.  "But  't  war  sure  funny  —  hit  war 
that!"  she  chuckled,  turning  homewards. 

Suddenly  Joan  stopped  —  and  her  eyes  raked  the 
trail.  "I  cl'ar  for  't !  —  I  plum'  forgot  that  preach- 
er-man. Must  have  gone  over  to  Sim  Rogan's," 
she  muttered. 


CHAPTER    XIII 

HASS,    he    war    a-tellin    that    there's    to    be 
preachin    up    at    the    church-house  —  kern 
Sunday,"  announced  Mitry  that  night  at 
supper. 

"There  be?"  exclaimed  Joan. 

"Hit  seems  they  want  to  raise  a  leetle  money  to 
help  some  folkes  over  on  the  mountain  as  have 
been  burnt  out  —  church-house  an  all.  The 
Preacher,  he  air  a-stoppin  over  at  Sim  Rogans's," 
he  concluded. 

"At  Sim's  ?  —  Good-land !"  exclaimed  Joan,  "then 
that's  where  that  man  went  this  —  um  —  aw  —  " 
and  she  paused,  discreetly. 

"Well  —  Joan  —  go  on  with  it  —  "  advised 
Mitry. 

"Yes,  Aunt  Joan  —  what  man?"  urged  Lindy. 

"Oh  —  I  don't  know  —  'zactly  —  "  evaded  Joan. 

"Huh !"  grunted  Mitry,  his  questioning  eyes  upon 
her. 

But  Joan  maintained  a  judicious  silence.  "Don't 
see  as  I'm  'bliged  to  tell  everything  I  know,"  she 
muttered  to  herself,  later.  "Poor  Brackie,"  she 
added,  chuckling. 

7* 


LINDY  LOYD  73 

"Daddy,  where  are  you?"  called  Lindy. 

"Yere  —  out  yere  on  the  porch,"  and  Lindy 
dropped  down  beside  him. 

For  awhile  the  two  sat  silent.  "Daddy,"  Lindy 
began,  presently,  burying  her  face  upon  his  knee,  "I 

—  Hugh  —  Daddy  dear  —  I  have  something  to  tell 
you." 

Mitry's  form  stiffened  and  his  arm  tightened  about 
the  girl,  but  he  made  no  reply. 

Lindy  went  on :  "Did  —  did  Hugh  speak  to  you 

—  Daddy?     He  said  he  would  see  you  —  tell  you 
about  —  " 

Still  Mitry  sat  quiet,  his  soul  in  hot  rebellion. 
Was  she  not  his?  "Bone  of  his  bone,  flesh  of  his 
flesh" —  the  very  heart  and  core  of  his  life?  —  and 
now  —  now  — • 

"Cita  —  Cita  —  my  leetle  gal  —  look  at  me !"  he 
burst  forth,  suddenly ;  and  the  lovely,  blushing  face 
was  lifted  to  his  searching  gaze. 

For  an  instant,  soul  gazed  into  soul.  "Yes  — 
Daddy  —  it  was  to-day,"  whispered  the  girl,  answer- 
ing his  unspoken  query.  "I  —  I  am  very  happy, 
Daddy,"  she  added  with  sweet  confiding.  But  Mitry 
only  held  her  closer. 

Presently  Lindy  reentered  the  house;  but  Mitry 
sat  on,  gazing  out  into  the  darkness.  "Land-sakes ! 
you-uns  out  yere,  yit,  Mitry?"  cried  Joan,  coming 
outside.  "Um-m-m  —  but  it  does  smell  good,"  sniff- 
ing the  dew-laden  air,  "an  just  listen  to  them  katy- 


74  LINDY  LOYD 

dids  a-hollerin  —  will  yuh?"  And  yielding  to  the 
sweet  insistence  of  the  night,  Joan,  too,  dropped 
down  upon  the  step. 

"Joan,"  Mitry  began,  "that  young  'Umphreys,  he 
war  a-talkin'  to  me  —  down  at  the  store,  last  night." 

"Yep  —  " 

"An  he  'lowed  that"  —  Mitry  puffed  industriously 
at  his  pipe  —  "that  he  thinks  a  heap  of  Lindy." 

Joan  remained  silent. 

"I  told  'im  that  I  did,  too,"  Mitry  concluded,  bit- 
terly. 

"Well  —  Mitry  —  hit  mought  be  worse,"  Joan 
cheered,  presently.  "A-sposin,  now  hit  war  that 
Hass  —  " 

"Damn  Hass !" 

"An  we-uns  don't  want  Lindy  on  the  'cull  list', 
nuther,  Mitry,"  Joan  concluded. 

Mitry  made  no  response,  but  smoked  on,  tempest- 
uously. 

"Ah  —  well  —  "  he  replied,  finally,  with  a  long- 
drawn  respiration,  "I  reckon  hit  be  natur  —  but 
't's  hard;  hit  sure  is  moughty  hard,  Joan"  Knock- 
ing the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  Mitry  sought  his  bed. 

The  frequency,  secrecy,  rapidity  of  growth  and 
awful  sweep  of  a  mountain  fire,  make  it  an  ever- 
present  dread  to  the  mountaineer.  In  his  isolated 
cabin  upon  the  mountain  —  in  the  dead  of  night,  he 
wakens  to  the  menace  of  the  fire-fiend  and  his  soul 
shrinks  within  him.  Vain  would  be  his  effort  to  cope 


LINDY  LOYD  75 

with  such  a  monster.  He  counts  himself  happy  in- 
deed if  allowed  to  escape  with  the  single  boon  of  life. 

This  being  so,  a  cry  of  distress  from  a  burned-out 
community  appeals  in  a  peculiar  manner  to  the 
mountaineer  and  he  will  give  of  his  meager  substance 
most  willingly.  Accordingly,  the  invitation  to  at- 
tend the  "preachin"  the  coming  Sunday  —  the  object 
of  which  had  been  freely  circulated  —  met  with  ready 
acceptance;  and  the  preacher,  presenting  his  cause 
simply  and  effectively,  won  a  cordial  response  from 
his  hearers. 

At  the  close  of  the  meeting,  Hass  Hicks  stepped 
promptly  to  Lindy's  side.  "Ain't  seen  you-uns  for 
a  right  smart  whiles,"  he  said. 

"Oh  —  howdy,  Hass,"  gaily  responded  the  girl ; 
and  they  followed  the  company  going  down  the  trail. 

Lindy  received  Hass's  advances  kindly.  Why  not? 
she  reasoned.  Secure  in  her  own  great  happiness 
she  could  afford  to  be  patient  with  his  infatuation; 
and  certainly  it  was  the  better  part  of  discretion 
to  endeavor  to  pacify  him,  to  avoid  irritating  him. 
Hass  was  known  to  be  a  man  of  strong  passions, 
reckless,  quick  to  act,  irrespective  of  consequences; 
and  besides,  had  she  not  another,  now,  to  consider  in 
this  connection?  In  time,  Hass  would  surely  real- 
ize the  absolute  futility  of  his  sentiment  for  herself. 
But  Lindy  underrated  the  depth  of  the  man's  pur- 
pose, the  strength  of  his  persistence,  his  pitiless, 
dogged  determination. 


76  LINDY  LOYD 

Of  late,  a  gradual  change,  an  awakening,  had 
come  over  Lindy.  Responding  to  the  sunshine  of 
love,  her  sweet  girl  nature  had  unfolded,  expanded; 
and  an  added  gentleness,  a  certain  womanliness,  but 
intensified  her  charm,  her  exceeding  desirableness  to 
the  luckless  wight  at  her  side. 

"Lindy",  said  Hass,  and  he  scrutinized  her  face, 
"you-uns  are  different,  someways  —  so  —  so  happy 
—  like.  What's  hit?"  he  demanded,  suspiciously. 

"Nonsense,  Hass,"  parried  the  girl  veiling  her 
eyes,  while  a  flood  of  scarlet  swept  over  her  cheek. 

But  Hass  was  not  satisfied.  Stopping  short,  he 
bent  down  and  peered  into  her  face.  "Ah  —  hit's 
that  low-down  city-feller,  again,"  he  gritted.  "Damn 
'im  —  damn  'im!"  he  blazed  with  angry  gesticula- 
tion, "a-snoopin  an  a-sneakin  'round  the  gal  as  is 
a-spectin  to  be  jined  to  me !  Just  lemme  ketch  —  " 

"Who  said  I  was  goin'  to  marry  you,  Hass  Hicks?" 
rang  out  the  clear,  young  voice.  "I  didn't  say  it ! 
and  I  tell  you  right  now  —  once  and  forever,  Hass, 
I  will  never  marry  you !  never  —  never  —  never!" 

Hass's  face  went  white  —  his  hands  dropped  nerve- 
less. Silent,  motionless  as  if  stricken  to  stone,  his 
eyes  two  glowing  coals,  he  stood  before  the  girl  so 
fearlessly  hurling  forth  her  defiance. 

Then  —  "Lindy,"  he  replied  —  placing  his  hand 
resolutely  upon  her  shoulder,  his  jaw  thrust  forward, 
while  his  eyes  burned  into  hers,  "yuh  air  a-goin  to 
be  jined  to  me  —  to  me!"  he  reiterated,  slowly  and 


LINDY  LOYD  77 

emphatically,  his  grasp  tightening  upon  the  daunt- 
less girl.  "An  there  ain't  no  yuther  man  on  God's 
earth,"  he  went  on,  his  passion  growing,  "as  can 
have  yuh,  Lindy,  but  me !  —  just  me!  yuh  hear, 
Lindy,  —  just  me!  —  /  swear  hit!"  he  cried  with 
trembling  voice,  with  fist  clenched,  his  face  up- 
raised to  the  sky  as  if  to  register  his  oath.  "An  just 
lemme  get  my  two  hands  on  that  dad-blasted  fur- 
riner,"  he  went  on,  wildly,  "I'll  —  I'll  —  " 

But  Lindy,  refusing  to  hear  further,  broke  from 
his  grasp  and  ran  like  a  deer  down  the  mountain. 


CHAPTEE    XIV 

MISS  LUCIE  SIMMONS  had  not  always  been 
an  invalid.     Born  in  the  South  and  guarded 
by  the  faithful  Mammy  Lu,  she  had  wan- 
dered over  'de  ole  place'  a  healthy,  happy  baby,  and 
surrounded  by  the  refinements  and  culture  incident 
to  her  station  in  life,  had  developed  into  a  brilliant, 
attractive  girl. 

Then  occurred  the  calamity  that  darkened  her 
days ;  —  a  calamity  that  included  a  lamentable  sac- 
rifice of  human  lives  —  her  parents  among  the 
number. 

For  a  time,  Miss  Lucie's  life,  also,  was  despaired 
of.  In  fact,  in  view  of  the  very  uncertain  alterna- 
tive of  life,  —  death  appeared  the  more  preferable, 
—  so  grievously  was  she  injured. 

Mammy  Lu,  however,  refused  to  accept  so  painful 
a  conclusion.  With  the  fidelity  of  the  old-time  ser- 
vant she  devoted  herself  to  her  "Lil  Missy",  assisting 
with  such  pertinacity  of  purpose  the  professional 
skill  at  command,  that  death,  lingering  long  at  the 
threshold,  was  finally  vanquished. 

Slowly  Miss  Lucie  emerged  from  the  shadows. 
Bravely  she  took  up  the  burden  laid  upon  her,  en- 

78 


LINDY  LOYD  79 

deavoring  with  sweet  patience  to  accustom  herself  to 
the  changed  and  sad  conditions  of  her  life  —  to  the 
deprivations  entailed  by  her  hurt  body. 

But  hope  dies  hard ;  —  and  there  came  black  days 
—  days  of  physical  suffering  and  despair ;  —  when 
her  whole  soul  rose  in  rebellion  against  her  bitter 
limitations  —  the  loneliness  and  emptiness  of  her 
life.  In  time,  Miss  Lucie  acquired  a  measure  of 
health.  But  she  would  never  again  have  freedom 
of  movement. 

From  the  very  circumstances  of  the  case  the  re- 
lations existing  between  Miss  Lucie  and  those  ren- 
dering her  personal  service  would,  necessarily,  be 
of  a  more  or  less  friendly  nature.  In  respect  to 
Hugh  Humphrey: — Miss  Lucie  had  immediately 
recognized  his  superiority  to  the  position  he  filled; 
also,  had  early  acquired  confidence  in  him  and  in  his 
strong  arm.  Refined  in  manner,  gentle  and  consid- 
erate in  his  support  of  her  helplessness,  her  efficient, 
handsome  attendant  made  their  mountain  drives  to- 
gether not  only  pleasurable,  but  matters  of  antici- 
pation. 

As  time  went  on  Miss  Lucie's  appreciation  of 
Hugh's  companionship  increased.  And  —  they  had 
much  in  common.  Hugh  was  a  student,  with  a  stu- 
dent's appreciation  of  the  world  of  books.  Miss 
Lucie,  too,  had  read  widely,  and  numberless  were 
the  discussions  upon  matters  of  interest  to  them 
both. 


80  LINDY  LOYD 

Given  two  young  people  of  opposite  sex,  congenial, 
with  opportunities  for  frequent  interviews,  with  the 
God-given  appeal  of  the  weaker  to  the  stronger 
especially  emphasized  —  and  the  situation  may  rea- 
sonably be  supposed  to  contain  possibilities,  at  least. 

As  far  as  Hugh  Humphrey  was  concerned  —  his 
respect,  his  admiration  for  Miss  Lucie  was  sincere; 
but  she  was  to  him  as  one  peculiarly  and  forever 
set  apart  by  her  terrible  affliction ;  and  safeguarded 
by  his  absorbing  passion  for  his  mountain-sweetheart, 
Hugh  pursued  his  untroubled  way,  fulfilling  each 
day's  duties  conscientiously  —  if  perfunctorily,  at 
times  —  his  thoughts,  his  hopes  fixed  upon  the  fu- 
ture ;  upon  Lindy,  always  Lindy. 

And  what  of  Lindy? 

The  weekly  interviews  with  Miss  Lucie  were  eagerly 
anticipated  by  the  girl.  Indeed,  they  were  occasions 
for  mutual  anticipation;  Lindy  bringing  not  only 
a  whiff  of  the  breezy  freshness,  the  invigoration  of 
the  hills,  but  the  charm  of  her  youth  and  quick  re- 
ceptivity—  her  sweet  solicitude  for  Miss  Lucie's 
welfare. 

Lindy  had  not  spoken  of  her  love  for  Hugh 
Humphrey.  Close  as  was  the  friendship  between 
Miss  Lucie  and  herself,  it  did  not  warrant  so  inti- 
mate an  unveiling  and  the  sweet  secret  had  remained 
untold. 

The  two  friends  were  together  again  upon  one  of 
these  occasions  —  Lindy's  head  bent  over  her  sewing. 


LINDY  LOYD  81 

Of  late,  a  subtle  change,  rather  an  unfolding,  had 
passed  over  the  girl ;  —  and  Miss  Lucie,  lying  quiet, 
observant,  noted  the  added  charm,  the  sweet  woman- 
liness. 

"Lindy,"  she  burst  forth,  "have  you  ever  consid- 
ered the  inestimable  boon  you  have  in  your  splendid 
health,  particularly  in  your  straight,  unmaimed 
body?  —  Ah,  me!"  and  she  moved,  painfully. 

"Oh  —  what  is  it?"  breathed  Lindy;  and  coming 
quickly  to  Miss  Lucie  she  placed  her  strong,  young 
arms  about  her  and  relieved  the  tired  position. 

"Poor  me !  —  Ah  —  poor  me !"  Miss  Lucie  sobbed, 
clinging  to  the  girl. 

Lindy  laid  her  soft  cheek  to  hers.  "What  is  it?  — 
what  is  it?  —  tell  me,"  she  pleaded.  "Is  the  pain  so 
bad  today?" 

"No  —  no  —  it  is  not  the  pain,  especially.  It  — 
it  is  all  of  it,  Lindy  —  the  whole  thing !  —  I  think  I 
must  be  rebellious,  Lindy." 

"But  something  is  troubling  you  —  ah  —  tell  me?" 

Unable  to  resist  the  soft  pleading,  Miss  Lucie  be- 
gan, haltingly:  "It  is  the  emptiness — the — the  lone- 
liness of  my  life  that  unnerves  me,  Lindy.  There  is 
always  the  pain  —  the  suffering,"  she  added.  "But 
that,  I  could  endure,  I  think;  I  have  become  accus- 
tomed to  that  —  but  the  other  —  the  loneliness  the 
utter,  awful  loneliness !  —  How  can  I  endure  that?  — 
and  for  always,  Lindy?  —  I  am  not  old  —  not  as 
years  count;  it  is  my  suffering  that  has  aged  me," 


82  LINDY  LOYD 

she  went  on,  appealingly.  "And  oh,  Lindy  —  I  am 
human  —  I  have  a  boundless  capacity  for  loving." 

"Oh,  yes !"  breathed  Lindy,  her  arms  close  about 
her  friend. 

Impelled  by  a  nameless  comprehension  in  the  eyes 
uplifted  to  hers,  Miss  Lucie  continued :  "But  that  is 
not  for  me,  Lindy  —  the  love  of  husband  and  child  — 
not  for  me,"  she  reiterated,  sadly.  "I  might  buy  it 

—  maybe  —  buy  consideration,  at  least ;  but  that 
would  not  be  what  I  would  want,  Lindy." 

"No  —  oh,  no !  you  would  not  want  that,  alone," 
Lindy  echoed,  softly  —  and  silence  fell. 

"Lindy  —  "  Miss  Lucie  went  on,  presently,  a  del- 
icate flush  covering  her  face,  "shall  I  tell  you?  —  I 

—  I   believe   I   will  —  "   she   hesitated  —  "there   is 
some  one  that  —  that  I  —  " 

"Oh  — there  is?"  breathed  the  girl. 

"But  he  does  not  know  it  —  I  think  he  does  not  — 
Ah  well  —  a  man  would  be  a  fool  indeed  to  fasten 
himself  to  such  a  burden,"  she  concluded,  brokenly. 

"Indeed  —  indeed  I  am  sorry,"  grieved  Lindy. 

"Why  —  why  I  have  saddened  you,  Lindy  —  I 
did  not  mean  to  do  that.  I  do  not  know  what  made 
me  go  on  so." 

"But  I  want  you  to  be  happy,"  Lindy  comforted. 

It  was  later  in  the  afternoon,  and  Lindy  and  Hugh 
were  ascending  the  trail  to  the  old  camp  —  Hugh 
having  fallen  into  the  habit  of  accompanying  Lindy 
from  her  interviews  with  Miss  Lucie. 


LINDY  LOYD  83 

Hugh  was  carrying  Lindy's  books.  "For  Lindy 
Maracita,"  he  read  from  the  fly-leaf.  "Maracita !" 
he  exclaimed,  "Miss  Lucie  has  a  penchant  for  pretty 
names," 

"But  that  is  my  name,  Hugh.  Maracita  is  Spanish 
for  Mary,  which  was  my  mother's  name  and  my 
grandmother's." 

"There  must  be  Spanish  blood  in  your  family, 
then." 

"Maybe.  Daddy  was  born  in  Spain.  But  my 
mother  was  English,  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman. 
I  have  a  tiny  prayer-book  that  belonged  to  her,  with 
her  name,  Mary,  written  in  it.  Aunt  Joan  says  my 
mother  used  the  little  prayer-book ;  —  I  love  it,"  she 
added,  softly,  her  eyes  pensive  and  they  climbed 
awhile  in  silence. 

"Daddy  always  calls  me  Cita.  Aunt  Joan  says 
he  called  my  mother  Cita.  I  never  knew  my  mother, 
Hugh  —  "  she  went  on,  tenderly,  "and  I  —  I  have 
always  wanted  her  —  so.  I  talk  about  her  —  some- 
times —  to  Miss  Lucie ;  she  understands  —  " 

"Yes,  she  would  understand,"  Hugh  replied.  "Miss 
Lucie  Simmons  is  a  wonderful  woman.  One  is  con- 
tinually impressed  with  her  strength  of  character ;  — 
the  courage  with  which  she  faces  the  hopelessness  of 
her  life." 

"I  love  her !"  said  Lindy,  simply.  "But  oh  — 
Hugh  —  why  should  her  life  be  so  lonely  and  sad  — 
for  always  —  I  mean?  She  is  young  —  just  a  few 


84  LINDY  LOYD 

years  older  than  I  —  If  she  should  marry  —  some- 
time —  maybe  —  " 

"Marry  —  Miss  Lucie  Simmons  marry  ?  —  oh,  no  ! 
impossible !"  interrupted  Hugh.  "To  me,  Miss  Lucie 
represents  all  that  is  finest  and  best  in  woman ;  — 
fine  in  the  highest  sense ;  but  marry !  —  " 

"Well  —  and  am  I  not  fine,  too,  Hugh?"  coaxed 
Lindy,  demurely.  She  was  leaning  against  the  old 
pine,  her  hands  folded  behind  her;  so  bewitching  a 
bit  of  femininity,  so  irresistible  altogether,  that  Hugh 
immediately  succumbed. 

"You  —  you?"  he  cried,  crushing  her  to  him,  "you 
are  Lindy !  —  just  Lindy!  There's  nobody  like  you, 
Lindy  —  my  little  wood-flower  !" 

And  Lindy  was  satisfied. 


CHAPTER    XV 

ARE   you  goin'   up   to   the  'lorrels'  tonight, 
Daddy?"  Lindy  inquired. 

"Yep,  I  am  a-goin'  up,"  was  the  reply. 
Having  satisfied  himself  that  his  revolvers  were  in 
readiness  Mitry  shoved  them  into  his  belt  ere  he  went 
on:  "There's  a  hull  lot  of  whiskey  to  be  got  off  our 
hands  tonight  —  can't  be  got  off  quick  'nough. 
Heern  tell  them  damned  revenoors  are  a-snoopin 
round  agin,"  he  added,  angrily. 

"Hass  a-goin'  up?"  Joan  queried. 

"Hass's  a-spected,"  drily.  "Nobody  knows  just 
what  that  feller's  a-callatins  to  do  —  he's  so  gol- 
darned  contrary,  yere  lately." 

"He's  a  moughty  mean  feller,  Miltry;  you-uns 
don't  want  any  bad  blood  betwixt  yer,"  admonished 
Joan. 

"Well  —  there's  just  nacherly  got  to  be  a  let  up, 
to  't;  an  I  told  Hass  to-day  I  war  plum'  ready 
for  'im  to  get  out,"  Mitry  exploded. 

"Yuh  did  tell  'im  that?  Well  —  then  —  Mitry 
Loyd,  you-uns  better  watch  out  for  yerself,"  ex- 
claimed Joan,  nodding  her  head,  meaningly.  "Yuh 
don't  need  to  be  told  'bout  Hass  Hicks  —  none," 
she  added. 

85 


86  LINDY  LOYD 

"Yes,  Daddy  —  you  watch  out,"  Lindy  reiterated, 
anxiously. 

"I'll  watch  out  all  right,"  was  the  grim  re- 
sponse. Taking  up  his  gun  Mitry  started  up  the 
trail,  prepared  for  what  the  night  might  hold  of 
danger  and  hindrance  to  the  purpose  in  view. 

Quickly,  noiselessly,  he  passed  up  the  mountain, 
his  eyes  scanning  every  step  of  the  way.  Presently 
he  halted  by  the  side  of  a  stream.  Placing  his  gun 
lightly  against  a  tree,  Mitry  dropped  softly  upon 
the  ground,  removed  his  shoes  and  hung  them  around 
his  neck.  He  then  proceeded  directly  up  the  bed  of 
the  brook. 

The  making  of  whiskey  was  a  recognized  source  of 
income  to  the  mountaineer  years  before  any  law  was 
enacted  against  it.  It  is  an  inherited  business  — 
handed  down  from  father  to  son.  Therefore  any 
restriction  in  the  matter  —  and  particularly  the 
question  of  taxes  —  he  considers  a  direct  infringe- 
ment of  his  God-given  rights. 

To  the  average  mountaineer,  the  obligations  of 
patriotism  appeal  not  at  all ;  —  and  the  feud  be- 
tween the  "IVfconshiner"  and  the  revenue  officer  has 
been  bitter  and  is  of  long-standing.  The  "reve- 
noor"  is  regarded  as  his  certain  foe ;  and  where,  from 
force  of  circumstances,  or  from  whatever  motive, 
the  moonshiner  may  "register"  his  still,  he  will  yet 
embrace  every  opportunity  to  get  his  "blockade" 
whiskey  upon  the  market.  In  this  effort  he  is  ably 


LINDY  LOYD  87 

abetted  by  his  numerous  sympathizers.  When 
caught,  the  moonshiner  pays  his  fine  —  and  repeats 
the  offence  upon  the  first  opportunity  offered. 

Distilling  requires  little  labor  and  is  a  paying 
business,  even  to  the  small  operator;  the  outlay 
involved  depending  altogether  upon  the  desired  ca- 
pacity of  the  "still."  The  furnishings  are  few,  com- 
prising the  "copper,"  "worm,"  "mash-tubs,"  and  the 
various  barrels  or  receptacles  for  the  distilled  liquor. 
The  furnace  is  a  matter  of  no  expense  —  simply 
stones  put  together  with  moistened  earth  —  and  the 
fuel  lies  right  at  hand.  The  one  absolute  require- 
ment is  a  stream  of  running  water  —  also  right  at 
hand. 

The  "lorrels"  was  an  illicit  still  run  by  four  part- 
ners —  of  whom  Mitry  and  Hass  were  two.  It  had 
been  in  successful  operation  for  some  time.  It  was 
hidden  far  up  the  brook,  within  the  heart  of  a 
broken,  piled-up  mass  of  rocks  and  still  further  pro- 
tected by  the  noise  of  the  water  as  it  swept  over- 
head, then  fell  to  the  depths  below.  Sifting  in  be- 
tween the  jagged  points  of  rock  came  occasional 
gleams  of  sunshine  and  the  pure  air  of  Heaven.  An 
escaping  rivulet  flowing  through  the  cave  afforded 
the  necessary  water  supply.  On  all  sides  grew  the 
rhododendrons,  their  stiff,  unyielding  branches  and 
heavy  foliage  massed  and  intertwined  in  inextricable 
confusion,  forming  an  impenetrable  thicket. 

The  cave  was  reached  with  the  greatest  of  caution, 


88  LINDY  LOYD 

the  way  of  approach  being  the  bed  of  the  brook. 
Arriving  at  the  falls  one  left  the  brook,  but  never  the 
rocky  path,  as  the  impress  of  a  single  foot-print 
would  be  sufficient  indication  to  the  ever  vigilant 
enemy.  Proceeding  a  few  steps  one  lifted  the  dense, 
concealing  screen  of  bush  and  foliage  and  a  narrow 
foot-path,  literally  hewn  through  the  rhododen- 
drons, was  disclosed.  So  close  was  the  growth,  so 
interlaced  the  branches,  that  not  a  single  ray  of 
sunlight  ever  penetrated  the  gloom.  Following  this 
path,  one  came  to  a  narrow  rift  in  the  rock  which 
led  directly  into  the  cave. 

Within  the  last  few  days  a  considerable  amount  of 
whiskey  had  materialized  at  the  "lorrels,"  the  safe 
and  speedy  disposal  of  which,  was  occupying  the 
minds  of  the  producers. 

As  has  been  said,  the  marketing  of  "moonshine"  is 
always  more  or  less  of  an  experiment;  and  of  late, 
owing  to  a  number  of  recent  confiscations  of  the  con- 
tested article,  the  operation  was  attended  with  even 
more  of  secrecy  and  danger. 

In  the  present  case,  considering  the  newly  aroused 
vigilance  of  the  "revenoors"  and  the  amount  of  whis- 
key to  be  disposed  of,  it  was  a  matter  requiring 
especial  shrewdness  in  judgment  and  strategy  in 
execution ;  —  as  any  error,  any  lessening  of  the  nec- 
essary and  habitual  caution,  might  involve  not  only 
the  loss  of  the  whiskey  and  the  arrest  of  the  oper- 
ators, but  might  endanger  the  safety  of  the  still 


LINDY  LOYD  89 

itself,  which,  so  far,  had  escaped  the  clutches  of  the 
law.  However,  having  determined  upon  a  plan  re- 
garding the  marketing  of  their  perilous  merchan- 
dise, the  producers  thereof  proceeded  to  carry  it 
out. 

In  this  instance,  as  frequently  occurs,  the  whiskey 
was  to  be  carried  to  a  given  point  within  reach  of 
a  road.  From  there,  barring  accident,  it  was  to  be 
forwarded  by  wagon,  then  passed  along  by  friendly 
hands,  until,  by  various  ways,  it  reached  its  final 
destination ;  and  as  the  amount  to  be  disposed  of  was 
so  considerable,  it  was  decided  not  to  risk  the  en- 
tire lot  in  one  venture  —  as  had  been  the  course 
heretofore  —  but  to  make  two  consignments  of  it. 
This  would  entail  double  labor,  but  be  safer  under 
the  present  circumstances.  As  matters  turned  out 
this  proved  to  be  a  wise  decision. 

Accordingly,  upon  the  morning  following  the  pre- 
ceding conversation  in  Mitry's  cabin,  at  the  first, 
faint  indication  of  the  opening  day,  a  single  man, 
armed,  his  shoes  hung  around  his  neck  and  carrying 
a  mysterious  burden  upon  his  shoulder,  came  down 
the  narrow  pathway  and  cautiously  lifted  the  leafy 
screen.  Peering  forth  into  the  shadows,  he  stood 
for  a  moment  intent,  every  sense  alert;  then,  step- 
ping lightly  outside,  his  bare  feet  falling  noiselessly, 
he  vanished  down  the  brook  with  the  sure  step,  the 
easy  carriage  of  body  possible  only  to  the  born 
mountaineer.  After  a  time,  a  second  man,  similarly 


90  LINDY  LOYD 

burdened,  emerged  and  likewise  disappeared;  then 
a  third  —  and  a  fourth.  Silently,  spectrally, 
enveloped  in  shadow,  they  appeared  but  for  a  mo- 
ment then  faded,  ghost-like,  in  the  dimness. 

For  a  short  way,  keeping  a  given  distance  apart, 
the  four  followed  the  bed  of  the  brook.  Presently, 
however,  they  left  the  brook  and  proceeded  directly 
down  the  mountain  to  a  specified  point  —  a  pile  of 
rocks  and  forest  debris  within  easy  reach  of  the  road 

—  where  each  man,  singly  and  alone,  stealthily  se- 
creted his  burden,  then  struck  off  for  home. 

Not  long  after,  an  ox-cart  carrying  bags  of  corn 

—  presumably  on  its  way  to  the  mill  —  came  creak- 
ing down  the  mountain  road.     With  eyes  and  ears 
keenly  on  the  lookout  for  any  indication  of  the  en- 
emy —  or  for  a  preconcerted  warning  —  the  driver 
stepped   casually   from  his    cart,   and   the  "moon- 
shine," covered  with  the  bags  of  corn,  was  off  on 
the  second  stage  of  its  journey. 

The  same  program  was  arranged  for  the  follow- 
ing morning;  and  but  for  the  fool-hardiness,  the 
obstinacy  of  one  of  the  number,  would,  presumably, 
have  met  with  equal  success. 

But  Hass  Hicks  was  an  uncertain  quantity,  these 
days.  His  always  quick  temper  had  become  even 
more  en  evidence  and  he  was  difficult  to  reckon 
with.  Frequent  "fallings  out"  with  his  partners 
had  occurred  and  bad  blood  was  imminent.  Par- 
ticularly was  this  the  case  in  regard  to  Mitry  Loyd. 


LINDY   LOYD  91 

As  has  been  stated,  this  particular  enterprise  was 
attended  with  more  than  the  usual  difficulties.  In 
consideration  of  this,  each  member  of  the  expedition 
was  expected  —  in  the  absence  of  disturbing  con- 
ditions —  to  adhere  rigidly  to  the  course  of  pro- 
cedure agreed  upon. 

The  following  morning,  therefore  —  in  pursu- 
ance of  the  same  arrangement  —  each  man,  listen- 
ing, peering,  passed  lightly  along  the  indicated  way 
and  melted  in  the  distance  —  Mitry  third  in  line, 
Hass  Hicks,  fourth  and  last. 

"Damned  skunk  —  I  won't  f oiler  sim !"  muttered 
Hass,  angrily,  as  Mitry  disappeared  in  the  shadows. 
Pausing,  he  gazed  warily  about  him.  "Damn  'im!" 
he  reiterated  and  filled  with  blind,  unreasoning  hate, 
Hass  flung  caution  to  the  winds  and  entering  upon 
a  shorter  cut  to  the  designated  point,  plunged  reck- 
lessly down  the  mountain. 

Suddenly,  and  apparently  from  the  very  ground 
at  his  feet,  uprose  an  officer  of  the  law  —  then  an- 
other. Ere  this,  however,  Hass  was  behind  cover, 
revolver  in  hand.  Bitter,  desperate,  he  was  an  ugly 
customer  to  handle,  and  before  he  was  overcome  one 
officer  was  disabled  and  Hass  himself  severely 
wounded.  Finally,  however,  Hass  was  hand-cuffed 
and  marched  off  to  the  "jail-house." 

Meanwhile,  the  first  and  second  men  in  the  line, 
adhering  strictly  to  the  plan  agreed  on,  had  delivered 


92  LINDY   LOYD 

their  goods  and  were  each  on  their  way  home.  Mitry, 
however,  less  fortunate,  was  out  in  the  open  and 
almost  within  sight  of  his  goal  when  the  first  shot 
was  fired. 

"Dad-burn  them  revenoors!"  he  muttered  as  he 
fled  to  cover.  "Wonder  where's  that  Hass?  Hit 
is  plum'  time  for  'im  —  "  and  he  scanned  the  trail, 
anxiously.  "Ah  —  the  dum-f ool !"  he  exploded,  as 
more  shots  rent  the  air.  "The  contrary  whelp !  — 
a-riskin*  the  hull  crop  that  a-ways !" 

After  a  time  all  sounds  of  disturbance  ceased  and 
Mitry,  revolver  in  hand,  stole  warily  forth.  Creep- 
ing from  cover  to  cover  he  finally  reached  the  pile 
of  debris,  secreted  his  moonshine  and  concluding  the 
coast  to  be  now  clear,  fearlessly  sought  the  scene 
of  recent  conflict.  That  the  struggle  had  been 
severe  was  evidenced  by  the  trampled  ground  and 
torn  shrubbery.  Searching,  Mitry  presently  came 
upon  the  whiskey  carefully  hidden  within  the  bushes. 
"Yah-yah  —  them  gol-darned  revenoors  !  —  a-spect- 
in*  to  kem  back  an  tote  't  away  —  wuz  ye?"  he 
jeered;  and  exultant,  yet  cautious,  Mitry  defiantly 
carried  the  whiskey  to  its  appointed  destination  and 
concealed  it  with  the  rest. 

Within  the  next  twenty-four  hours  every  possible 
hiding-place  in  the  vicinity  was  submitted  to  a  rigor- 
ous search  —  the  pile  of  debris  among  the  rest  —  but 
with  no  result. 


LINDY  LOYD  93 

Convinced  that  a  large  amount  of  whiskey  had 
slipped  through  their  grasp,  the  officers  of  the  law 
redoubled  their  efforts  and  a  number  of  stills  were 
raided  within  the  month.  The  "lorrels,"  however, 
remained  unearthed. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

SI  ETTER,  he's  a-goin  to  have  a  fun'ral,"  Mrs. 
Hicks  announced,  appearing  suddenly  in  Joan's 
doorway. 

"Who  for?"  Joan  demanded,  austerely,  the  dasher 
hanging  suspended. 

"His  wife." 

"His  wife!  — Huh  — "  sniffed  Joan,  "an  for 
which  one,  I  wonder?  for  he's  got  his  third,  right 
now;  an'  I  never  heern  tell  of  any  fun'ral  for  ary 
of  them  two  othern's  —  not  yet." 

"Mebbe  Si's  a-callatin  to  have  two  fun'rals  at 
onct  an  save  expense,"  Mrs.  Hicks  suggested. 

"Well  —  then  —  somebody  orter  tell  Si  Etter  to 
put  the  fun'ral  off  a  leetle  longer,  yet;  an  he  can 
have  't  for  all  three  of  'em,"  exploded  Joan,  "for 
everybody  knows  that  Miz  Etter,  she  has  one  laig  in 
the  grave,  right  this  very  minute;  an  if  't  hadn't 
been  for  old  black  Polly  she'd  been  all  the  ways  in  — 
long  an  long  ago.  I  clar  for  't,  Brackie,  I'd  just  like 
to  know  what's  got  into  this  yere  milk,"  Joan  con- 
cluded, irrelevantly. 

"What's  hit?" 

Joan  pounded  the  dasher  up  and  down  tempestu- 
94 


LINDY  LOYD  95 

ously  as  she  exploded:  "Been  a-churnin  ever  since 
sun-up ;  —  an  this  yere  pesky  butter  ain't  kem  yet ! 
An  milk's  a  gettin  that  scarce  —  yuh  wouldn't  be- 
lieve, Brackie." 

"A-speakin  of  churnin,  Joan,  Miz  Pegg,  now  — 
she  ain't  got  no  cow,  has  she?" 

"Cow?  —  Mandy  Pegg?  —  No,  she  ain't  got  no 
cow ;  —  ain't  got  nuthin  that  goes  on  four  laigs  — 
except  that  old  tom-cat  that  used  to  belong  to 
Granny  Pegg." 

"I  war  just  certain  Miz  Pegg  had  no  cow,"  Brackie 
assented,  contentedly. 

"Well  —  what's  hit?"  Joan  demanded,  struck  by 
a  nameless  something  in  Brackie's  manner. 

"Well  —  then  —  Joan  —  "  and  Brackie  settled 
herself  firmly  into  her  chair,  her  chin  thrust  for- 
ward, aggressively,  "Miz  Pegg,  she  war  a-churnin 
whenst  I  kem  by  there,  yesterday." 

Joan's  dasher  was  again  suspended  as  she  de- 
rided :  "A-churnin !  —  Miz  Pegg  a-churnin!  You- 
uns  must  be  clear  plum'  crazy,  Brack  Hicks.  Why 
—  Miz  Pegg,  she  haven't  even  —  she  haven't  even  a 
goat !" 

"Joan,"  Mrs.  Hicks  reiterated,  undauntedly,  "Miz 
Pegg,  she  war  a-churnin  whenst  —  /  —  Jcem  —  by  — 
there  —  yesterday!" 

"Well  then,  Brackie  —  "  Joan  demanded ;  and 
having  succeeded  in  establishing  the  main  fact, 
Mrs.  Hicks  proceeded  with  her  narration. 


96  LINDY  LOYD 

"Miz  Pegg's  house,  hit  war  all  shut  up  whenst  I 
kem  'long.  First  off,  I  thought  nobody  wuz  to  hum ; 
and  then,  Joan,  then  —  "  with  a  significant  pause  — 
"I  heerd  the  churn  a-goin  —  ker-plunkity  —  plunk- 
ity  —  plunkity  —  plunkity  —  " 

"I  —  want  —  to  —  know!"  Joan  exclaimed, 
breathlessly. 

"Yep  —  that  war  just  hit,"  and  Mrs.  Hicks 
paused  to  enjoy  the  effect  of  her  announcement. 

"Go  on,  Brackie  —  go  on !"  Joan  urged. 

"Well  —  Joan  —  I  war  right  there,  an  Miz  Pegg, 
she  be  new  folkses,  so  I  said  to  myself  'mebbe  you'd 
orter  be  friendly  like,'  —  yuh  knows,  Joan,  so  I  up 
an  tried  the  door.  An  hit  war  locked,  Joan.  Hit 
—  tear  —  locked." 

"Are  yuh  sure  that  door  was  locked,  Brackie?  — 
sure  —  now?"  Joan  demanded. 

"Hit  bodaciously  war  —  Joan,"  was  the  tart 
reply. 

"Huh!  — huh!" 

"An  I  war  just  a-movin  aways,"  Mrs.  Hicks  con- 
tinued, whenst  the  door,  hit  opened  a  leetle  crack  an 
Miz  Pegg,  she  peeked  out.  I  clar  for  't  Joan  —  she 
looked  that  queer  —  an  there  we-uns  stood,  just 
a-gawpin." 

"Land-sakes !"  ejaculated  Joan,  her  hands  upon 
the  long  since  perfectly  quiescent  dasher. 

"Then  Miz  Pegg,  she  asked  me  to  kem  in  —  an  in 
I  went ;  an  there  set  the  churn  —  yep  —  there  't  war! 


LINDY  LOYD  97 

I  clar  for  't,  Joan,  I  war  that  upset  I  didn't  know 
nuthin  'tall ;  —  didn't  know  which  war  Miz  Pegg  — 
which  war  churn  —  nor  which  war  chair ;  an  I  all 
but  set  plum'  down  onto  that  churn;  —  would,  if 
Miz  Pegg  she  hadn't  a-pulled  me  off  —  I  war  that 
be-addled.  What's  hit?"  she  demanded,  sharply, 
in  response  to  a  strange,  gutteral  sound  from  her 
companion. 

"Tain't  nuthin,  Brackie,  nuthin  't  all,"  choked 
Joan,  busying  herself  in  another  part  of  the  kitchen. 

Mrs.  Hicks's  eyes  followed  Joan  suspiciously. 
"Did  a  fly  get  down  yer  neck,  Joan?"  she  persisted. 

"No  —  didn't  no  fly  get  down  my  neck.  Go  on, 
Brackie." 

But  Mrs.  Hicks  still  gazed  mistrustfully  at  Joan. 
"Don't  know  where  I  war  at  —  now,"  she  fumed. 

"You-uns  war  a-huntin  'round  for  that  chair," 
chuckled  Joan. 

"I'm  a-goin!"  blazed  Mrs.  Hicks,  her  suspicions 
confirmed.  "Yer  always  a-laughin  —  " 

"Now,  Brackie,  yuh  just  set  right  down  an  tell 
me  the  rest  of  't.  I'm  not  a-laughin  —  am  I?" 

"Mebbe  not  —  right  this  yere  minute ;  but  nobody 
knows  —  " 

"What'd  Miz  Pegg  have  to  say  for  herself,  Brackie 
—  anyways?"  Joan  persisted. 

"Didn't  say  nuthin  —  neither  did  I ;  —  an  I  can 
tell  yuh,  Joan  Loyd,  hit  sure  war  moughty  curious 
'round  there  for  awhiles.  After  a  bit  I  found  my 


98  LINDY  LOYD 

tongue  an  I  said  —  oh  —  just  airy  like  —  'I  see  yuh 
be  a-churnin',  Miz  Pegg.' ' 

"Ain't  't  now?"  interpolated  Joan,  breathlessly. 

"An  Miz  Pegg,  she  up  an  said  —  sorta  quick,  like 
—  an  her  face,  hit  wuz  as  red  as  a  beet,  Joan,  just 
as  red  as  a  beet  —  'Oh,  yep  —  I'd  gathered  up  one 
thing  ernuther  —  an  I  thought  I  mought  as  well  do 
a  leetle  churnin',  says  she."  And  the  two  women 
gazed  at  each  other  in  eloquent  silence. 

"Said  'she'd  gathered  up  one  thing  ernuther'! 
Good-land-er-Goshen !  Brackie,"  exploded  Joan,  "now 
I  wonder  just  where  she'd  been  a-gatherin'  it?  — 
that's  the  thing !  —  where  —  where?  Brackie,"  her 
excitement  growing,  "have  yuh  heern  tell  of  any- 
body else  a-worryin'  bout  their  milk  a-gettin'  short?" 

"Laws-a-massy !  Joan  —  yuh  ain't  a-sposin  —  " 

"Ain't  a-sposin  nuthin,  Brack.  Folkses  can't 
churn  without  milk,  can  they?" 

"Nope  —  spose  not,"  agreed  Mrs.  Hicks. 

"Well  —  then  —  "  Receiving  no  reply,  Joan  con- 
tinued "Where'd  that  Pegg  woman  kem  from,  any- 
ways, Brackie?" 

"Oh  —  way  off  —  somewheres.  She  don't  belong 
'round  yere,  none." 

"Well  —  she'd  better  go  back  there,"  Joan  de- 
clared ;  and  silence  fell. 

"What'd  yuh  heern  from  Hass,  Brackie?"  in- 
quired Joan,  presently. 


LINDY  LOYD  99 

"Oh  —  he's  a-gettin  along  —  pore  feller." 

"An  that  revenoor  as  Hass  most  killed?" 

"He's  a-gettin  along,  too  —  now.  Hite  Cronce, 
he  war  a-tellin  me  that  't  war  a  dost  shave  for  that 
revenoor.  Hite,  he's  been  up  to  the  jail-house 
twict,"  she  added. 

"Brackie  Hicks,  you-uns  ought  to  get  down  on 
yer  knees  an  thank  the  Lord  —  'bout  that  revenoor." 

"Mebbe  I  have,"  laconically. 

"Well  —  if  Hass  had  a  killed  'im  —  yuh  knows 
just  what  that'd  meant,"  Joan  persisted. 

"Hass,  he  war  dretful  hurted  hisself,  Joan." 

"He  war  the  one  to  blame  for  that,  Brackie." 

"Mebbe  so  —  mebbe  so,  but  —  well  —  Joan  " 
Brackie  burst  forth,  "Hass,  he  have  been  just  so 
tried  yere  lately  —  some  f olkes,  they  have  made 
't  so  hard  for  'im  —  that  the  pore  feller,  he  have 
hardly  knowed  what  he  war  at,"  she  concluded,  sig- 
nificantly, her  eyes  upon  Joan. 

Joan  made  no  response. 

"Where  be  Lindy  —  anyways  ?"  Mrs.  Hicks  de- 
manded, irrelevantly. 

"Gone  down  to  Dark  Holler,"  was  the  nonchalant 
reply. 

And  Mrs.  Hicks  "took  the  bull  by  the  horns." 
"Them  three  months,  they  be  up  in  November,  Joan, 
an  Hass,  he  says  he's  a-goin  to  be  jined  to  Lindy 
just  as  soon  as  he  gets  out." 


100  LINDY  LOYD 

"Hass's  a  plum'  id  jit,  Brack." 

"Mebbe  so,"  persisted  Mrs.  Hicks,  "but  I  can 
tell  yuh  one  thing,  Joan  Loyd,  an  that  ain't  two; 
whenst  Hass  Hicks,  he  onct  gets  a  thing  into  his 
haid  —  hit's  there  —  plum'!  —  an  he'll  get  the  thing 
he's  after  —  or  —  or  sumpins  just  nacherly  gotter 
bust." 

"Well  —  then  —  Brack  —  sumpins  likely  to  have 
a  chanct  to  bust  —  !"  Joan  flared.  "Why  can't 
Hass  get  some  sense  into  his  knot?" 

"Dunno  —  dunno  —  "  was  the  hasty  response, 
"but  I  sure  wish  he  war  to  hum:"  and  Mrs.  Hicks 
sighed  drearily.  "Hite,  he  says  that  Hass's  thin  as 
a  rail  —  and  coughs  —  and  coughs." 

"Don't  worry  'bout  Hass,  Brackie  —  he's  a-gettin 
long  all  right  now.  An  'tain't  nuthin  to  be  put  into 
the  jail-house  —  just  a  happen-so,"  Joan  went  on, 
bent  upon  comforting  Brackie,  "for  nobody  can  tell 
who's  a-goin  to  be  shut  in  there,  next  —  Mitry,  just 
like's  not  —  another  feller  as  is  af card  of  nuthin 
nor  nobody." 

"Yep  —  that's  so,"  agreed  Mrs.  Hicks.  "But  't 
air  sure  lonesome  for  me,  Joan  —  up  in  my  cabin  all 
alone.  Yuh  don't  know  how  lonesome,"  she  added. 

"Of  course  hit  be,  Brackie,"  cried  Joan,  sympa- 
thetically. "Be  you-uns  a-goin  to  the  dance  over  to 
Rufe  Kane's  —  kem  Thursday  night?" 

"Nope  —  reckon  not  —  now." 


LINDY  LOYD  101 

"Better  go,  Brackie,  hit'll  pearten  yuh  up. 
We-uns'll  kem  by  an  carry  yuh  long  with  us." 

"Well  —  then  —  mebbe  I'll  go.  Yep,  reckon  I'll 
go,  Joan,"  agreed  Mrs.  Hicks  in  a  more  cheerful 
tone.  And  she  departed  to  her  cabin. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

THE  dance  in  question  was  a  yearly  occurrence, 
generally  anticipated,  and  the  participants 
came  from  far  and  near.  The  place  where  it 
was  held  was  a  matter  of  expediency  —  usually ;  and 
while  there  might  be,  and  were,  occurrences  of  simi- 
lar character  throughout  the  year,  this  particular 
merry-making,  to  which  all  were  bidden,  occupied  a 
place  by  itself  in  the  estimation  of  the  mountaineers. 

This  time  the  dance  was  to  take  place  over  in 
the  Cove  with  Rufus  Kane's  new,  unfinished  barn  as 
the  scene  of  the  festivity  —  Rufe's  cabin  to  serve 
as  cloak-room,  kitchen  and  nursery  —  this  last,  a 
most  important  adjunct.  The  supper,  no  small 
item  in  the  entertainment  —  and  to  which  all  were 
allowed  to  contribute  —  was  in  charge  of  certain 
women  of  the  party. 

Thursday  night  arrived,  clear  and  beautiful  with 
a  full  moon  overhead.  At  an  early  hour  the  old  and 
young  —  whole  families,  indeed,  the  babies  in  arms  — 
could  be  seen  approaching  the  appointed  place, 
many  having  walked  miles  over  rocky  pathways. 

Some  carried  their  shoes  slung  around  the  neck, 
or  if  on  the  feet,  a  better  pair  —  in  the  case  of  some 

102 


LINDY  LOYD  103 

fair  one  —  might  be  found  carefully  wrapped  in  a 
handkerchief.  Some  came  with  no  shoes  at  all.  In 
any  case,  shoes  or  not,  it  was  a  merry-hearted  com- 
pany, bent  on  a  night  of  frolic. 

Presently  the  Loyds  and  Mrs.  Hicks  joined  the 
others  on  the  trail ;  Lindy,  her  heart  atune  with  her 
eager  feet,  stepping  along  joyously. 

Dancing  was  unalloyed  pleasure  to  Lindy  and 
these  particular  occasions  were  anticipated  with  de- 
light. Lindy's  love  for  dancing  was  inborn;  she 
danced  as  a  matter  of  course  —  as  naturally  as  the 
birds  sang ;  and  when  but  a  tiny  child,  a  single  strain 
of  music  —  particularly  if  it  were  the  twang  of 
strings  —  would  prove  sufficient  to  set  the  little  feet 
twinkling. 

Mitry,  recognizing  this  ability,  recalled  for  the 
girl's  pleasure  —  for  his  own  also  —  the  visions  of 
his  youth;  his  old-time  proficiency  in  the  merry 
pastime;  his  memories  of  the  beautiful  and  charac- 
teristic dances  of  Andalusia  —  in  which  the  emotions, 
through  the  medium  of  a  skilled  performance,  are 
so  wonderfully  portrayed. 

And  Lindy  was  an  apt  pupil.  No  posture  was  too 
difficult,  no  step  too  fantastic  for  her  to  undertake; 
—  her  pliant  body  and  expressive  face  lending  them- 
selves to  any  requirement  of  the  delineation. 

Perhaps  the  girl's  rather  exceptional  facility  in 
the  art  may  have  been  due  to  some  far-away  ances- 
tor in  sunny  Spain,  where  dancing  is  not  only  a  time- 


104  LINDY  LOYD 

honored,  national  custom,  but  a  recognized  avenue 
for  the  expression  of  sentiment.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
the  graceful,  emotional  Andalusian  dances  as  inter- 
preted by  Lindy  —  in  which  Mitry  frequently  bore 
a  part  —  were  admitted  sources  of  great  enjoyment 
to  the  simple-hearted  mountaineers. 

"Don't  reckon  yer  Daddy'll  get  a  chanct  to  shake 
his  foot  with  you-uns,  to-night,  Cita,"  said  Mitry, 
gazing  fondly  at  the  girl  tripping  so  buoyantly  at 
his  side,  her  face  alight  with  expectation. 

Lindy  immediately  slipped  her  arm  confidingly 
within  his,  her  sweet  face  uplifted.  And  Mitry  was 
answered. 

"Pore  Hass  —  shut  up  there  in  the  jail-house," 
muttered  Mrs.  Hicks,  her  eyes  upon  the  happy  girl, 
"But  he'll  be  out  again  —  he'll  be  out,"  she  added. 

Mitry 's  jaw  tightened,  but  he  made  no  reply. 

"Hear  the  big  bull-fiddle  a-boomin,"  cried  Joan, 
gaily,  as  they  drew  near  to  their  destination.  "I 
clar  for  't,  Brackie,  hit's  a-gettin  into  my  feet  this 
yere  very  minute!"  and  Joan  picked  up  her  skirts 
and  proceeded  to  execute  some  fancy  steps,  to  the 
great  delight  of  those  in  her  immediate  vicinity. 

"You-uns  'd  better  cool  down  a  leetle,  Joan," 
quietly  advised  Mitry,  exercising  his  frequent  pre- 
rogative. 

"Cool  down  —  Mitry?  —  me?  —  Land-a-livin !" 
merrily  responded  Joan,  "I  ain't  a-goin  to  cool  down 
—  noways  at 'all !  —  I'm  just  a-goin'  to  steppit  to- 


LINDY  LOYD  105 

night,  every  chanct  I  get !  —  even  if  —  even  if  't 
has  to  be  with  old  Uncle  Dave  Herron,"  she  con- 
cluded, audaciously,  alluding  to  the  octogenarian  of 
the  locality.  And  Joan  disappeared  within  the  cabin. 

It  was  a  merry  scene.  The  barn,  a  skeleton-like 
affair,  not  yet  entirely  inclosed,  was  destitute  of 
either  partition  or  mow.  Through  the  unfinished 
apertures  the  cool  evening  breeze  wandered  at  will. 
From  the  rafters  and  sides  of  the  building  lanterns 
were  suspended;  along  one  side  benches  had  been 
placed,  not  for  wall-flowers,  however,  for  in  this 
assembly  there  were  none.  In  one  corner  was  sta- 
tioned "the  musicianers" :  —  a  violin,  bass-viol  and 
two  or  three  banjos.  In  another  stood  the  customary 
pail  of  water  and  drinking-gourd,  while  somewhere 
about,  in  a  secluded  spot  known  to  the  initiated,  was 
the  always  to  be  found  "mountain  dew"  for  cases 
where  a  stronger  refreshment  was  thought  necessary. 

Above  the  enticing  strains  of  the  music,  the  merry 
voices  and  tripping  feet,  rose  clear  and  distinct  the 
voice  of  the  gray-haired  veteran  upon  whose  pres- 
ence the  success  of  the  evening  was  said  to  depend. 
Listen  as  he  sweeps  his  bow  across  the  strings  in 
the  old-time  melodies,  nodding,  gesticulating:  "Gals 
to  the  center  an  all  hands  'round  — "  he  shouts ; 
then  suddenly,  with  emphasis  all  his  own  —  "The 
yuiher  way  'round!"  and  as  with  laugh  and  jest  the 
merry  riot  struggles  back  to  place  he  calls  again: 
"That's  the  way,  boys  —  steppit  up  —  steppit  up !" 


106  LINDY  LOYD 

Ah  —  truly  he  is  a  wizard  with  the  strings.  His 
magnetism  is  great.  He  knows  how  to  lighten  the 
weary  feet  —  to  renew  the  visions  of  days  gone  by  — 
to  banish,  for  the  time  being,  the  memory  of  rusty 
joints,  creaking  sinews  and  rheumatic  twinges. 
Everybody  is  on  the  floor,  old  and  young;  fancy 
steps  of  long  ago  are  revived  and  the  fun  waxes  fast 
and  furious.  "Swing  corners  —  balance  all  —  "  he 
shouts.  "Gals  to  the  right  —  boys  to  the  left  —  " 
his  body  swaying  in  unison  with  his  bow.  Presently, 
with  a  long  drawn-out  "Promenade  all  —  "  the  per- 
formers seek  the  outer  air. 

Lindy  was  in  great  demand.  The  coolness  and  in- 
trepidity manifested  in  her  recent  encounter  with  the 
panther  —  and  particularly  her  riddance  of  the 
beast  —  but  served  to  increase  the  interest  and  pride 
in  her ;  and  a  dance  with  Mitry  Loyd's  "darter"  be- 
came something  to  be  accomplished  by  the  simple- 
hearted  mountain  people.  Lindy  received  their 
hearty  compliments  with  a  quiet  grace  of  manner, 
replying  with  frankness  to  the  well-meant,  if  some- 
what curious  inquiries  in  regard  to  her  rescue  by 
that  "docter  feller",  and  footed  it  merrily  with  old 
and  young  alike. 

Presently  the  usual  request  for  a  character  dance 
from  Lindy  and  Mitry  arose  and  in  response  to  a 
sign  from  her  father  the  girl  stepped  lightly  out 
upon  the  floor.  "We-uns'll  dance  the  Malaguena, 
to-night,  Cita,"  he  said,  referring  to  one  of  the  many 


LINDY  LOYD  107 

variations  of  the  Bolero  regarded  with  especial  favor 
by  the  mountaineers. 

Catching  up  a  bit  of  shawl  —  for  mantilla  or 
scarf  play  important  parts  in  these  dances  —  Lindy 
flung  it  coquettishly  about  her  and  with  face  alight, 
arms  gracefully  extended,  poised  lightly  upon  one 
foot  awaiting  the  signal  to  proceed. 

Immediately  the  players  began  an  old,  well  known 
Spanish  melody,  the  required  accent  being  supplied 
by  a  skilful  use  of  "bones"  in  lieu  of  castanets. 

And  truly  Lindy  was  fair  to  look  upon.  To  the 
natural  beauty  of  the  girl  was  added  the  charm  of 
her  newly-awakened  soul  —  her  love  for  Hugh.  And 
to-night,  with  this  deeper  insight  into  the  meaning  of 
life  —  her  pulses  swayed  and  thrilled  by  the  call  of 
the  music,  Lindy  was  an  inspiration  —  she  danced 
as  never  before.  Musicians  and  spectators  alike,  en- 
tered into  the  spirit  of  the  occasion,  the  latter  re- 
sponding in  ways  of  their  own  —  with  head,  heels 
and  hands,  or  soft,  sibilant  whispers  —  to  the  irre- 
sistible appeal  of  the  castanet  rhythm. 

Quiet,  intent,  the  mountaineers  watched  the  gradual 
unfolding  of  the  pretty  story,  the  skilful  interpre- 
tation of  Love's  theme.  The  girl,  gracious,  indif- 
ferent, inviting  then  withholding;  he  —  dauntlessly 
pursuing,  beseeching,  yet  always  courteous.  She  — 
coquetting  with  eyes,  hands  and  scarf ;  at  times  inter- 
posing it  as  a  shield  between  herself  and  her  too  im- 
portunate lover;  at  times,  allowing  only  the  chal- 


108  LINDY  LOYD 

lenging  eyes  to  appear.     He  —  patiently  enduring, 
wooing  her  with  gentleness  yet  determination. 

As  the  story  developed,  the  girl's  perverseness  be- 
gan to  yield.  The  music  grew  softer,  the  poses 
more  compliant,  the  refusals  more  and  more  hesi- 
tant, until,  finally,  she  stood  before  her  lover  a  pic- 
ture of  sweet  surrender.  Proudly  he  drew  her  to 
him  —  and  with  the  last  faint  whisper  of  the  quiver- 
ing strings  their  lips  met  in  a  lover's  kiss. 

Meanwhile,  a  considerable  amount  of  interest  had 
centered  about  the  cabin,  from  which  came  delightful 
whiffs  of  coffee  and  the  merry  voices  of  the  women 
in  charge  of  the  table  which  had  been  spread  just 
outside  in  the  moonlight.  Presently  all  gathered 
about  it. 

Rufus  Kane's  cabin  had  three  rooms,  the  one 
farthest  from  the  kitchen  having  been  set  aside  as  a 
sleeping-room  for  the  babies  and  younger  children. 
Deposited  —  according  to  their  ages  and  degrees 
of  responsibility  —  upon  floor,  bench  or  table  and 
watched  over  by  the  maternal  half  of  their  progeni- 
tors —  who,  at  any  hour  of  the  evening  might  be 
seen  stealing  into  the  darkened  room  upon  minister- 
ing duties  intent  —  they,  for  the  most  part,  slept 
peacefully. 

In  one  corner  of  the  room  two  tables  had  been 
placed  together  and  covered  with  a  folded  quilt. 
Upon  this  improvised  couch  reposed  the  three  young- 
est members  of  the  gathering:  Henry  Crum,  junior, 


LINDY  LOYD  109 

young  Ephraim  Tuttle  —  both  from  up  the  moun- 
tain —  and  a  little  daughter  of  Cale  Cronce's  from 
the  Cove.  During  the  early  part  of  the  evening  quite 
an  amount  of  interest  and  attention  had  centered 
about  these  little  new-comers,  but  now,  filled  to  re- 
pletion and  closely  wrapped  in  shawls,  as  became 
their  very  tender  age,  they,  with  the  rest  of  the  chil- 
dren, slept  quietly. 

After  a  time,  Si  Etter,  having  imbibed  a  generous 
portion  of  the  "mountain  dew"  wandered  stupidly 
into  the  darkened  room  in  search  of  a  place  where 
he  might,  in  privacy,  indulge  in  a  few  moments  of 
repose. 

"Every  blame  place  full  —  consarn  't !"  he  mut- 
tered, peering  senselessly  about  in  the  gloom.  Stum- 
bling over  to  a  bench  he  dropped  down  upon  a  pile 

of  shawls  and  closed  his  eyes.  "Ah-h-h "  he 

breathed,  luxuriously,  stretching  his  legs ;  —  and 
immediately  the  air  was  rent  with  indignant  shrieks 
from  the  squirming,  desperate  object  beneath  him. 

"Great  Snakes !"  exclaimed  the  now  sobered  man, 
releasing  his  victim,  while  from  every  side  frightened 
yells  and  protestations  floated  out  into  the  night. 
Even  the  very  dogs  united  in  the  wild  appeal. 

"Great  Snakes !"  he  reiterated,  bewildered,  aghast 
at  the  constantly  increasing  clamor.  "Yere  they 
kem  —  be-damn!"  he  burst  forth,  wildly,  lifting  his 
hands  in  helpless  appeal  as  the  sound  of  excited 
voices  and  flying  footsteps  drew  near;  and  gazing 


110  LINDY  LOYD 

frenziedly  about  for  a  way  of  escape,  Si  climbed 
shakily  upon  the  window-sill  and  dropped,  panting, 
outside.  "Consarn  them  wimmin!"  he  gasped, 
steadying  his  trembling  body  against  the  cabin. 

Meanwhile,  all  was  wild  confusion  and  terrified 
question  within  the  darkened  room;  mothers  franti- 
cally seizing  their  offspring  with  but  one  thought: 
to  be  assured  of  their  safety. 

"The  window  —  "  gasped  one. 

"Tain't  open  —  " 

"Yep  — hit  be!" 

"Get  a  light  —  quick !  just  like's  not  hit  be  a-hidin' 
under  sunipin  —  " 

"What's  a-hidin  under  sumpin?" 

"Nobody  knows." 

"Painter  —  just  like's  not,"  said  one,  voicing  the 
fear  in  every  heart. 

"Painter  —  " 

"Painter  —  Good-land-er-livin !"  and  the  more 
agile  immediately  climbed  upon  the  first  bit  of  fur- 
niture at  hand. 

The  entrance  of  a  light,  however,  restored  confi- 
dence and  common  sense  and,  the  panic  over,  a 
measure  of  quiet  succeeded. 

"Must  have  bin  a  dog  as  clumb  in  the  window," 
suggested  one. 

"Well  —  then  —  there  ain't  a-goin  to  be  any 
more  dogs  a-climbin  in  —  I'll  see  to  that,"  declared 
another,  securing  the  window. 


LINDY  LOYD  111 

"Hit  wan't  no  dog,  Mammy"  murmured  a  small 
voice. 

(One  could  have  heard  the  fall  of  a  pin.) 

"What  war  't,  Billy?"  —  every  ear  alert. 

"Hit  war  Uncle  Si,  Mammy."  A  speaking  silence 
followed  this  declaration. 

"Shucks!  yuh  war  a-dreamin,  Billy." 

"I  warn't  a-dreamin,  Mammy." 

"Be  yuh  sure  hit  war  Uncle  Si,  Billy?" 

"I  see  'im  climb  out  the  window,  Mammy  —  " 

"I  see  'im,  too  —  " 

"Me,  too  —  " 

"Well-I-never!  —  Si  Etter!  —  Good-Land!  —  " 
chorused  the  indignant  women. 

"Now  what  you-all  reckon  Si  Etter  war  a-snoopin 
in  yere,  for?"  demanded  one. 

"A-huntin  a  comf'table  place  for  a  snooze,  most 
likely  —  " 

"An  a-settin  hisself  plum'  on  the  top  of  some  pore 
babby  to  get  't,  I  reckon  —  " 

"An  I  bet  't  war  my  babby  he  set  on!"  exploded 
one,  hugging  her  still  frightened  offspring  to  her 
breast. 

"Well  —  sumpin  moughty  bad's  bliged  to  have 
happened  to  set  the  children  a-hollerin'  so,  and  I 
think  sumpin  had  orter  be  done  to  Si  Etter !  — 
a-skeerin  everybody  up  so.  I  war  just  certain  some 
wild  beastis  had  broke  in,"  burst  forth  another. 

"Me,  too  —  me  too !"  chorused  the  women. 


112  LINDY  LOYD 

"Well  —  now  —  "  soothed  another,  "If  't  war 
nuthin  wuss  than  Si  Etter  we-alls  can  have  some  more 
fun  —  one  more  dance,  anyways.  I  war  a-callatin 
to  spend  the  rest  of  my  time  right  yere."  And  in  a 
short  time  kindly  sleep  again  enfolded  the  children 
and  the  festivities  of  the  evening  once  more  held 
sway. 

But  the  first  delicate  ray  of  light  was  already 
stealing  up  the  sky  and  the  revellers  gathered  upon 
the  floor  for  a  last,  merry  reel.  "Balance  to  the 
corners  —  up  the  middle  and  down  again  —  turn  yer 
back  on  yer  pardner  —  "  sang  the  gray-haired  vet- 
eran ;  —  and  the  barn  reechoed  with  the  gay  riot. 

With  a  final  flourish  and  a  "Promenade  all  —  " 
the  veteran  laid  down  his  bow.  Immediately  gay 
farewells  were  said,  sweethearts  sought  each  other 
and  heads  of  households,  hastily  gathering  up  their 
sleeping  children,  hurried  home  to  the  duties  awaiting 
them. 


CHAPTER     XVIII 

A  FEW  hours  later,  Mrs.  Hicks  could  be  seen 
hurrying    along    the    trail.      Reaching    the 
Loyds'  cabin  she  flung  the  gate  wide,  raced 
up  the  path  —  and  Peter,  sunning  himself  peacefully 
upon  the  porch,  started  immediately  for  the  barn. 

"Here  comes  Brackie  —  and  there  goes  Peter. 
Queer  —  "  muttered  Joan,  drawn  to  the  window  by 
the  slamming  of  the  gate.  "Reckon  I've  just  got 
to  ask  Brackie  what  't  war  she  done  to  'im — pore 
cat.  Good-land!  Brack  sure  has  got  something  to 
tell  this  time,"  she  concluded;  and  Mrs.  Hicks 
burst,  panting,  into  the  kitchen.  "Joan  —  Joan  — 
have  you-uns  heern  tell?"  she  cried. 

"Heern  tell  what?" 

"Laws-a-massy !  Joan,  ain't  yuh  heern  tell  'bout 
them  pore  leetle  babbies  ?  I  clar  for  't  —  I'm  that 
het  up  —  "  Mrs.  Hicks  interpolated  and  seizing  her 
apron  she  applied  it  to  her  face. 

"Well  —  Brackie  —  whose  pore  leetle  babbies?" 
Joan  demanded,  grimly. 

"An  yuh  ain't  heerd  a  word  'bout  't,  Joan?" 

"No  —  Joan  drawled,  "been  a-listenin'  too, 
Brackie,"  she  added,  significantly. 

113 


114  LINDY  LOYD 

"Well  —  Hen  Crum  an  Cale  Cronce,  they's  had 
the  biggest  kind  of  a  set-to  —  air  a-havin  't  yet,  for 
that  matter  —  an  Hen  Crum,  he  war  out  all  the 
mornin  with  his  gun  after  Cale  Cronce  —  or  Si 
Etter,  said  he  didn't  care  which  —  an  Cale  Cronce, 
he  started  out  early  after  Hen  —  an  —  an  Si  Etter, 
he  air  out  after  'em  both." 

"Good-land !"  Joan  exclaimed. 

"Yep  —  an  the  Tuttles  an  the  Allers  an  the  Pralls 
an  —  an  all  the  f olkses  from  up  the  mountain  —  an 
all  the  f  olkses  from  the  Cove  —  an  purty  nigh  the 
hull  neighborhood  —  yep  —  an  Miz  Pegg,  too,  Joan 
—  they's  all  mixed  up  in  't  —  an  —  an  hadn't  yuh 
heern  tell  nuthin  —  " 

"No  —  I  hadn't !  An  what's  more,  I  haven't  heard 
yet !"  exploded  the  exasperated  Joan.  "Now,  Brack 
Hicks,  if  you-uns  don't  cool  down  an  tell  me  what's 
hit  —  right  off  —  I'll  —  I'll  —  "  and  Joan  reached 
for  her  sun-bonnet. 

"Don't  get  so  mad,  Joan  —  but  't  do  be  queer  yuh 
ain't  heern  —  "  But  Joan  had  started  for  the  door. 

Seizing  her  by  her  apron,  Brackie  held  on  as  she 
rattled  off:  "Hen  Crum,  he  toted  Cronce's  babby 
clear  way  up  on  the  mountain  an  Cale  Cronce,  he 
toted  Hen's  babby  way  down  to  the  Cove ;  —  an  they's 
both  a-blamin  Si  Etter  for  mixin  'em  up ;  —  an  Si, 
he  sez  he  don't  know  a  thing  in  the  world  'bout  any 
of  't  an  swears  he'll  shoot  'em  both  for  a-layin  such 
a  thing  onter  'im  —  an  —  an  —  " 


LINDY  LOYD  115 

"Land-er-livin !  Brackie,  yuh  ain't  a-tellin  me  that 
them  two  leetle  babbies  war  swapped  —  " 

"Yep  —  that's  just  hit,  Joan.  They  war  swapped" 

"An  they's  a-blamin  Si  Etter  for  doin  't?" 

"Si,  he  war  in  there  —  yuh  knows,  Joan  — 
a-scarin  up  the  childern." 

"Well  —  well  —  ain't  't  now?"  breathed  Joan. 
"Just  'bout  like  Si  Etter  —  to  mix  'em  up  that 
aways,"  she  added. 

"Hen  Crum,  Cale  Cronce  an  Si  Etter  —  they's  all 
out  on  the  war-path,  sure  'nough,  an  I'm  moughty 
glad  they  ain't  out  after  any  of  mine;  for  they  be 
powerful  mad  an  't  '11  be  a  good  lammin'  for  the 
galoot  as  did  the  mixin  —  if  't  ain't  nuthin  wuss," 
went  on  Mrs.  Hicks. 

"I  wan-ter-know !  Brackie?"  and  Joan  eyed  her 
companion,  doubtfully,  "I  wonder  —  now  —  if  you- 
uns  have  got  't  straight?" 

Mrs.  Hicks  rose  from  her  chair  and  tied  on  her 
sun-bonnet.  "I  bodaciously  have  got  't  straight, 
Joan  Loyd,"  she  cried,  wrathfully,  "yuh  air  always 
a-axin  me  'have  I  got  't  straight.'  Be  yuh  a-hint- 
in  — " 

"Ain't  a-hintin  nuthin,  Brack  —  an  don't  fly  off 
the  handle,  nuther.  Them  pore  leetle  babbies !  when 
did  they-alls  find  't  out,  Brackie?  They  war  going 
long  peaceably  'nough  when  we-uns  left  'em." 

"Didn't  find  out  'till  they-alls  war  clear  hum  an 
unkivered  'em." 


116  LINDY  LOYD 

"Huh !  —  way  up  on  the  mountain  an  clear  down 
to  the  Cove.  Must  have  been  considerable  of  a  to-do 
just  'bout  that  time,  Brackie,"  chuckled  Joan. 

"Reckon  that  be  hit." 

"Seems  like  the  light  had  burnt  out  in  the  room 
an  hit  war  plum*  dark  whenst  they-alls  went  in  to  get 
the  babbies;  but  the  three  leetle  ones  war  a-layin 
on  the  table,  just  as  they  had  been,  an  Ann  Tuttle, 
she  picked  hers  up  an  hurried  off.  But  somebody 
had  mixed  the  two  other'ns  up  —  turned  'em  plum' 
'zactly  'round;  more'n  that,  Sallie  Crum's  shawl 
had  been  put  on  the  Cronce  babby  an  Betsy  Cronce's 
shawl  on  the  Crum  babby  —  an  I'd  like  yuh  to  beat 
that,"  Mrs.  Hicks  concluded. 

"Sounds  like  a  clear  case  of  mixin,  Brackie,"  Joan 
declared,  "now  who  do  yuh  spose  done  't?" 

"Nobody  knows;  —  but  I  don't  b'lieve  't  war  Si 
Etter,  Joan." 

"That  miserable  Si  Etter,"  Joan  burst  forth, 
"always  a-gettin  hisself  to  the  front,  someways.  I 
clar  for  't  —  I  never  see  his  equal ;  —  the  leetle, 
skinny  dried-up  old  skite!" 

"That's  kez  he's  always  a-drinkin  an  a-carryin  on 
so ;  —  but  Si  Etter,  he  ain't  so  old,  Joan." 

"He's  old  'nough  to  know  how  to  behave  hisself 
a  whole  heap  better  than  he  does,"  Joan  retorted ;  — 
"an  Miz  Etter  just  buried,  too !  Did  yuh  see  'im, 
Brackie  —  a-caperin  'round  with  that  Pegg  woman?" 

"Si  war  just  out  for  a  good  time,  Joan." 


LINDY  LOYD  117 

"Well  —  reckon  he  had't ;  wild  beastis  show  —  an 
all  of  't." 

"Pore  Si !  —  mebbe  if  he'd  a-married  the  right 
woman,  Joan  — "  Mrs.  Hicks  paused  and  gazed 
significantly  at  her  companion. 

"Si  Etter  certainly  have  had  no  scarcity  of  wo- 
men, Brack ;  —  an  a  man  what'll  have  four  or 
five—" 

"Joan  Loyd!"  gasped  Brackie,  "Si  Etter's  only 
been  married  three  —  " 

"An  out  a-huntin  up  his  fourth  already,"  snapped 
Joan. 

"You-uns  always  'pear  to  hate  Si  Etter  so 
moughty  bad,  Joan;  —  now  —  I  wonder  why?"  and 
Mrs.  Hicks  peered  shrewdly  into  Joan's  face. 

"Mebbe  I  knows  too  many  of  his  goin's-on,"  Joan 
returned,  shortly,  as  she  turned  away. 

"Well  —  he's  no  old  man,  anyways.  Si  Etter's 
no  older  than  yuh  be,  Joan  —  an  yuh  knows  't." 
Which  statement  was  entirely  correct. 

Si  Etter  had  rather  an  unenviable  reputation.  He 
was  known  to  be  a  "hard  liver"  —  with  what  the 
term  may  imply  of  personal  indulgence.  With  it  all, 
however,  was  a  certain  frank  audacity,  a  sang  froid 
in  regard  to  his  delinquencies,  which,  generally  speak- 
ing, carried  him  along.  To  the  wrecking  of  "love's 
young  dream"  was  attributed  the  responsibility  of 
Si's  wasted  life,  and  upon  Joan  Loyd  —  as  upon  the 
woman  —  was  laid  the  burden.  Whatever  unfor- 


118  LINDY  LOYD 

tunate  mischance  may  have  occurred,  was  securely 
locked  within  the  past ;  the  only  tangible  evidence,  a 
sudden  and  complete  undoing  of  the  tender  relations 
existing  between  the  two.  In  respect  to  Joan,  the 
effect  of  the  rupture  was  an  attitude  of  unsparing 
judgment  towards  Si's  manner  of  life;  an  atti- 
tude, however,  in  the  opinion  of  Mrs.  Hicks  — 
used  only  as  a  shield  for  a  far  more  compassionate 
sentiment. 

"Wisht  Hass  could  a  seen  Lindy,  last  night  — 
a-dancin',"  Mrs.  Hicks  went  on,  presently. 

Joan  made  no  reply. 

"She  war  that  purty  —  an  happy.  Didn't  'pear 
to  be  a-carin  —  none ;  wan't  a-missin  nothin  nor  — 
nor  nobody,"  Mrs.  Hicks  persisted,  meaningly. 

Joan  maintained  her  silence. 

"Where  be  she  —  then?"  Mrs.  Hicks  snapped, 
turning  to  her  unresponsive  companion. 

" Who  —  Lindy  ?  oh  —  she  have  gone  down  to 
Dark  Holler  to  carry  some  aigs,"  was  the  noncha- 
lant reply. 

"Huh  —  huh !"  snorted  Mrs.  Hicks. 

"Brackie,  have  you-uns  heern  tell  who's  to  do  the 
preachin'  kem  the  "bush-meetin"  next  week?"  Joan 
inquired,  presently. 

"I  heern  that  a  great  'vangelist  from  way  off 
somewhere  war  a-comin,  for  one;  an  there  wuz  an- 
other'n  spoke  of  —  but  I  don't  'member  now.  Of 
course  Brother  Burruss'll  be  there,  Joan,"  Brackie 
added,  significantly. 


LINDY  LOYD  119 

"Well  —  Brackio  —  I,  for  one,  am  moughty  glad 
Brother  Burruss  air  a-comin;  hit  wouldn't  be  bush- 
meetin  without  'im  —  would  't,  Brackie?"  was  the 
calm  response. 

"No  —  that  hit  wouldn't,"  and  Mrs.  Hicks  rose 
to  depart.  "Joan,  can  I  borry  yer  dye-tub?  — 
mine's  got  broke ;  an  I've  gotter  dip  my  caliker  frock 
again  'fore  I  go." 

"An  I  must  remember  to  have  Mitry  go  up  to  the 
camp  to  burn  out  the  snakes;  they's  just  nacherly 
'bliged  to  be  thick  under  the  platforms,"  said  Joan, 
mischievously,  as  she  returned  with  the  tub. 

"Snakes  —  snakes  —  "  and  Mrs.  Hicks  shuddered, 
"I  clar  for  't,  Joan,  I  plum  forgot  'bout  the  snakes. 
Of  course  they's  'bliged  to  be  thick,  up  there.  Reckon 
I'd  better  stay  to  hum." 

"Yuh'll  just  kem  right  'long  with  we-uns,  Brackie," 
laughed  Joan.  "The  snakes  won't  be  so  bad."  And 
Mrs.  Hicks  departed. 


CHAPTER    XIX 

LINDY  had  left  the  eggs  at  the  hotel,  refilled 
her  basket  at  the  village  store  and  was  on  her 
way  up  the  mountain.  As  she  turned  into  the 
familiar  trail  she  was  joined  by  Hugh  Humphrey,  a 
frequent  occurrence  these  days.  "Give  me  your  bas- 
ket, Lindy,"  he  said,  taking  it  from  her  with  lover- 
like  authority;  and  they  proceeded  on  up  the  moun- 
tain. 

"You  look  just  like  a  rose  this  morning,  Lindy  — 
a  pink  rose.  I  do  not  know  which  is  the  more  pink, 
your  cheeks  or  your  sun-bonnet." 

"But,  Hugh,"  protested  the  girl,  her  color  deepen- 
ing, "I  ought  to  look  like  a  white  rose  —  for 
I  danced  the  most  of  last  night.  I  danced  every 
dance,  Hugh,"  she  added,  demurely,  her  eyes  prop- 
erly downcast. 

"I  would  hardly  expect  you  to  be  a  wall-flower, 
Lindy." 

Lindy  threw  him  a  winsome  glance. 

Presently  they  reached  the  shade  of  the  old  pine 
and  dropped  down  upon  the  needles.  For  a  time  the 
two  remained  silent,  luxuriating  in  the  cooling,  fra- 
grant breeze  —  in  the  peace  and  charm  of  the  forest. 

120 


LINDY  LOYD  121 

"Have  —  have  you  heard  from  your  college  — 
yet  —  Hugh?"  began  Lindy,  lifting  apprehensive 
eyes. 

"No." 

"And  you  will  tell  me  —  just  as  soon  —  " 

"I  will  tell  you,  Lindy.  I  should  hear  almost  any 
day  —  now." 

The  girl  gave  a  soft  little  sigh.  "Yes  —  the  fall 
will  soon  be  here  and  —  and  —  you  will  be  gone, 
Hugh,"  she  murmured,  winking  the  tears  away. 

Hugh  drew  her  closer  to  him.  "Lindy,"  he  cried, 
bent  upon  cheering  her,  "doesn't  the  big  camp- 
meeting  begin  next  week?  —  and  you  are  going?" 

"Oh,  yes  —  we're  going  —  we  always  go,  Hugh," 
and  Lindy  swallowed  the  sobs.  "Daddy  and  Aunt 
Joan  would  like  you  to  come  up,  Hugh.  You  can?" 

"Yes  —  I  would  like  to  come  up." 

"Sunday  is  likely  to  be  a  big  day." 

"Well  —  then  —  Sunday  it  is,  Lindy,"  he  cried, 
cheerily. 

The  "bush-meetm',"  the  event  of  the  year  to  the 
mountaineer,  is  held  in  August  or  September  — 
usually  the  latter  and  during  the  time  of  the  full 
moon.  It  continues  for  a  week  and  is  an  occasion 
looked  forward  to,  planned  for,  and  before  which 
all  other  events  pale.  It  is  widely  attended;  some 
of  its  most  regular  frequenters  arriving  from  far- 
away points,  having  followed  difficult,  almost  im- 
passable pathways. 


122  LINDY  LOYD 

For  weeks  ahead,  particularly  in  the  case  of  the 
younger  women,  fairly  hopeless  wardrobes  have  been 
undergoing  rejuvenation,  faded  adornments  have 
been  freshened  and,  where  circumstances  would  at  all 
allow,  the  few  stray  pence  put  by  for  a  much  prized 
ribbon  or  bit  of  finery. 

Outside  of  the  infrequent  and  therefore  highly 
esteemed  devotional  opportunities  afforded  —  for  the 
mountaineer  is  by  nature  and  from  environment  in- 
clined to  be  religious  —  this  yearly  gathering  is  a 
time  for  the  renewal  of  the  ties  of  kinsfolk  and  ac- 
quaintance —  in  many  cases  the  only  available  occa- 
sion throughout  the  year ;  while  as  for  sweethearting 
—  the  inevitable  concomitant  of  such  a  gathering, 
the  facilities  offered  are  incomparable. 

Mention  has  been  made  of  the  extreme  isolation 
possible  to  the  mountaineer.  In  many  of  these  iso- 
lated cases,  an  occasional  visit  to  the  mountain  store, 
the  mill,  or  —  a  rare  occurrence  —  an  attendance 
upon  a  religious  service,  will  constitute,  generally 
speaking,  the  sum  total  of  contact  with  the  outside 
world. 

This  being  the  case,  the  annual  recurrence  of  the 
camp-meeting  is  hailed  with  delight.  Collecting  his 
meager  supply  of  necessaries,  the  mountaineer  with 
his  entire  family  —  including  of  necessity  his  few 
"cattle  critters"  —  will  come  gaily  down  from  some 
lonely,  almost  inaccessible  spot  and,  as  frequently 
occurs,  be  the  very  first  upon  the  ground. 


LINDY  LOYD  123 

The  religious  services  were  to  be  held  in  the  old 
camping-place,  a  charming,  secluded  valley  or  cove 
some  distance  up  the  mountain.  The  site  was  a 
level,  grassy  spot  within  a  grove  of  oaks,  with  the 
added  advantage  of  a  stream  of  never-failing  water. 
The  camp-meeting,  Providence  and  weather  per- 
mitting, was  to  open  the  following  Wednesday  — 
the  campers,  as  a  rule,  preparing  and  provisioning 
for  a  week's  stay. 

Accordingly,  early  on  the  appointed  day,  the 
mountaineers  began  to  gather  upon  the  camping 
ground.  As  the  many  families,  conveyed  in  ve- 
hicles of  any  and  every  description  —  the  same 
generous  latitude  of  expression  applying  with  equal 
force  to  the  patient,  worn  beasts  attached  thereto  — 
came  creaking  into  camp,  they  were  received  with 
shouts  of  welcome.  Selecting  a  spot  for  their  so- 
journ, they  unloaded  their  paraphernalia  and  were 
soon  at  home. 

Many  came  upon  the  backs  of  mule  or  bull.  Gaily 
accoutred  with  quilts  and  what  not,  with  the  few 
household  utensils  dangling  around  them,  the  lean, 
spiritless  beasts  were  led  meekly  into  camp  to  the 
gay  accompaniment  of  the  jingling  pots  and  pans. 
Safely  secured  upon  the  top  of  all,  were  the  younger 
children  —  the  mother  and  the  rest  of  the  family 
plodding  wearily  alongside.  Others  arrived  upon 
"shank's  mare";  their  simple  necessities  slung 
around  the  neck.  All  were  received  with  equal  wel- 


124  LINDY  LOYD 

come,  for  the  mountaineer  is  no  "respecter  of  per- 
sons." 

It  was  a  scene  of  merry  and,  apparently,  hopeless 
disorder;  the  younger  members  of  the  company, 
household  goods  and  domestic  animals  —  including 
the  tender  progeny  of  horse  and  cow  —  mingled  in 
wild  confusion.  Blending  with  the  shouts  of  wel- 
come and  laughter,  the  voices  of  children  and  bark- 
ing of  dogs,  rose,  clear  and  insistent,  the  soft,  admon- 
itory low  of  the  cow  and  the  anxious  call  of  the 
mother-horse. 

A  few  of  the  number  occupied  tents  erected  over 
roughly  built  platforms  which  were  used  from  year 
to  year.  By  far  the  greater  number,  however,  were 
housed  under  bare  poles  with  a  canopy  of  gaily 
colored  quilts,  or  some  bright  covering,  stretched 
overhead  —  this  nondescript  protection  adding 
greatly  to  the  generally  picturesque  effect. 

Several  of  the  wagons  were  supplied  with  canvas- 
covered  tops  —  a  provident  arrangement  in  case  of 
bad  weather  —  and  furnished  with  hay  to  be  used 
for  sleeping  purposes,  if  so  desired.  But  what  could 
be  more  satisfying  than  a  "shake-down"  of  fragrant 
fir  and  hemlock  boughs ;  —  a  pile  of  which  had  been 
already  stacked  for  use. 

While  the  women  were  completing  the  simple  home 
arrangements,  the  men  were  preparing  the  place  for 
worship ;  removing  the  accumulation  of  undergrowth 
and  debris,  and,  where  necessary,  restoring  the 


LINDY  LOYD  125 

weather-worn  benches  — rough  planks  fastened  to 
stakes  driven  into  the  ground.  Others  were  collect- 
ing quantities  of  pitch-pine  for  torches,  or  preparing 
great  piles  of  pine-knots,  cones  and  other  inflam- 
mable material  for  bonfires.  A  huge  stump,  remnant 
of  some  forest  ruler,  was  utilized  as  a  pulpit  and 
upon  this  a  Bible  was  placed.  Over  this  improvised 
desk  an  arbor,  or  protection  of  boughs,  was  roughly 
arranged ;  this,  with  the  inevitable  pail  and  drinking- 
gourd,  completed  the  simple  preparations. 

It  was  a  rarely  beautiful  spot,  this  forest  Temple. 
Through  the  arches  overhead  sifted  the  sunshine, 
falling  in  golden  bars  across  the  mossy  flooring. 
Stealing  through  the  aisles  of  century  old  pillars 
floated  the  never  ceasing  music  of  Nature's  choir: 
—  the  song  of  bird  and  bee,  the  laughter  of  leaves, 
the  ceaseless  lament  of  the  pines.  Swelling,  dimin- 
ishing, the  endless  melody  flowed  on,  while  weaving 
in  and  out,  like  a  golden  thread,  ran  the  steady, 
dominant  tone  of  the  brook. 

But  the  shadows  deepen ;  tiny  fires  begin  to  sparkle 
and  the  fragrance  of  the  evening  meal  is  carried  on 
the  breeze.  Presently  the  clear  tones  of  a  horn 
summon  the  people  together  for  a  short  opening  ser- 
vice led  by  some  lay-brother,  pending  the  arrival  of 
those  in  charge.  Soon  the  watch-fires  are  lighted, 
the  tired  campers  seek  repose  and  only  the  call  of 
some  wandering  night-bird,  or  the  fretful  lament  of 
some  weary  child  is  heard. 


126  LINDY  LOYD 

By  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day  the  com- 
pany had  for  the  most  part  assembled;  and  rein- 
forced by  the  arrival  of  Brother  Burruss  and  the 
hoped-for  Evangelist,  the  order  of  proceedings  was 
fully  established  and  the  camp-meeting  could  be  con- 
sidered as  fully  under  way. 

"Joan,  be  that  young  doctor  feller  yere  on  Lindy's 
'count?"  demanded  Mrs.  Hicks. 

"He  ain't  yere  on  Mitry's  nor  mine,"  was  the 
tart  reply. 

"Huh !"  rejoined  Mrs.  Hicks,  as  she  turned  away. 

This  conversation  occurred  the  following  Sunday 
and  was  the  result  of  Hugh  Humphrey's  arrival  in 
camp  and  consequent  attentions  to  Lindy. 

The  day  had  been  beautiful,  bringing  many  vis- 
itors a  number  of  whom  were  remaining  for  the 
evening  service.  Viewed  from  the  standpoint  of  the 
mountaineer,  the  camp-meeting  was  succeeding  in  the 
object  for  which  it  was  intended;  the  services 
were  orderly  and  well  attended,  the  interest  con- 
stantly increasing. 

The  afternoon  meeting,  just  over,  had  been  marked 
with  especial  significance  and  many  had  "gone  for- 
ward," openly  avowing  their  desire  to  lead  a  better 
life.  Among  the  number,  to  the  sincere  joy  of  the 
zealous  souls  present,  were  several  known  "hard 
cases."  But  there  were  others  yet  unreached,  about 
whom  the  interest  especially  centered  and  of  these, 
Si  Etter  was  perhaps  the  most  prominent. 


LINDY  LOYD  127 

While  not  openly  a  scoffer,  Si  was  believed  to  be 
perfectly  indifferent  to  the  matter  of  his  soul's  sal- 
vation. Each  successive  camp-meeting,  however, 
found  him  upon  the  ground,  willing,  helpful,  and  a 
regular  attendant  upon  the  services.  But  though 
frequently  approached  upon  the  subject  of  religion, 
Si  remained,  apparently,  obdurate. 

"He's  a  hard  old  nut  —  that  Si  Etter,"  Joan  had 
remarked ;  "Been  talked  at  an  prayed  at,  'till  —  I 
clar  for  't!  I  should  think  he'd  be  just  clear  plum' 
'shamed  of  hisself  not  to  get  religion." 

Stealing  soft  and  sweet  through  the  shadows 
again  sounded  the  call  to  prayer  and  from  every 
direction  groups  of  people  could  be  seen  approach- 
ing the  appointed  place.  Presently  a  woman's  voice 
started  the  strains  of  a  well-known  hymn.  Quickly 
the  familiar  melody  was  caught  up  and  passed  along, 
until  the  outermost  edge  of  the  in-coming  throng 
were  joining  in  the  song. 

It  was  a  beautiful,  a  wildly-picturesque  scene. 
The  night  had  fallen  gently,  enveloping  all  in  mys- 
terious shadow.  Like  sentinels,  grim  and  grey,  up- 
rose the  mighty  trees ;  through  the  interlacing  foliage 
the  stars  shone  softly;  in  the  near  distance,  broad 
bands  of  moonlight  danced  and  sparkled  upon  the 
water ;  beyond,  deep  and  black,  fell  the  impenetrable 
shadows. 

Clear  and  distinct  to  the  senses  came  the  match- 
less, the  dewy  fragrance  of  the  mountain's  breath 


128  LINDY  LOYD 

—  the  pulsing  heart  of  the  forest,  the  song  of  the 
katy-did,  the  happy  gurgle  of  the  brook,  the  frog's 
chorus ;  while  over  all,  penetrating,  dominating  all, 
lay  the  solemn  silence  of  the  hills. 

The  assemblage  sat  quiet,  expectant,  their  serious, 
upturned  faces  gleaming  weirdly  in  the  flickering 
light  of  torch  and  bonfire.  Groups  of  people,  stand- 
ing, sitting,  reclining,  were  scattered  here  and  there, 
for  the  utmost  latitude  in  regard  to  posture  pre- 
vailed. A  few  of  the  more  enterprising  had  secured 
vantage  points  upon  some  overhanging  limb.  Upon 
the  outer  edge  of  the  crowd,  well  within  the  shadows, 
Hugh  and  Lindy*  had  found  a  place;  not  so  far 
away,  leaning  comfortably  against  a  stump,  were 
Joan  and  Mrs.  Hicks. 

The  meeting  was  opened  with  prayer,  followed  by 
an  old,  familiar  hymn;  and  as  that  great  volume 
of  song  arose  in  the  refrain  "By  and  by  we'll  go 
home  to  meet  them,"  it  was  thrilling  in  its  abandon, 
inspiring  in  its  power. 

"Brackie,"  chuckled  the  irrepressible  Joan,  "just 
listen  to  Si  Etter  a-singin !  —  An  I  wonder  which 
wife  he's  a-thinkin  'bout  meetin?"  she  went  on,  wick- 
edly, her  eyes  upon  the  unconscious  singer,  "I  clar 
for  't  —  he's  a-standin  up  there  with  his  head 
throwed  back  an  his  eyes  shut  tight  —  for  all  the 
world,  Brackie,  as  if  he's  a-seein  one  of  'em  this  yere 
very  —  " 

"Joan!"  gasped  the  scandalized  Mrs.  Hicks. 


LINDY  LOYD  129 

"Oh,  shucks !"  was  the  wilful  response ;  and  having 
succeeded  in  shocking  Brackie,  Joan  subsided. 

In  the  hush  and  anticipation  that  followed,  a 
hunter,  his  dog  at  heel,  threaded  his  way  noncha- 
lantly through  the  throng,  his  feet  falling  noiselessly. 
Upon  his  shoulder  he  carried  an  old-fashioned  flint- 
lock; his  powder-horn  and  shot-pouch  were  slung 
around  his  neck.  Dropping  quietly  upon  the  grass, 
he  reached  down  within  his  leggins  —  home-tanned 
hide,  secured  with  strong,  brown  twine  —  and  draw- 
ing forth  his  bowie-knife  began  to  whittle. 

Presently  the  Evangelist  arose  and  announced 
his  text.  With  plain  utterance,  emphasizing  with 
gesture  and  voice,  he  brought  the  truth  home  to  his 
hearers,  sparing  none.  With  keenness  of  perception 
and  direct  attack  he  laid  bare  the  failure,  the  indo- 
lence, the  secret  sin  of  many  a  soul  before  him,  pic- 
turing with  impassioned  speech  the  sadness  of  a 
wasted  life,  its  utter  hopelessness,  both  here  and 
hereafter;  and  as  his  voice  sank  to  pleading,  sobs 
and  tears  arose.  Personal  applications  of  his  dis- 
course were  not  wanting  and  cries  of  "That's  me, 
Lord  —  I  war  the  one  —  God  have  mercy  —  "  were 
heard.  Occasionally  a  hymn,  lined-out  by  the 
preacher  was  sung  —  or  a  lay-brother  would  lead 
in  fervid  petition,  cries  of  "Lord  send  a  witness  — 
send  the  power  —  "  arising  on  every  side. 

"Oh  —  oh  —  laws-er-massy !  —  help  —  help !"  sud- 
denly screamed  Mrs.  Hicks,  and  springing  to  her 
feet  she  shrieked  and  gesticulated,  wildly. 


130  LINDY  LOYD 

"Good-land-er-Goshen !  Brack  —  what's  hit?" 
shrilled  the  startled  Joan ;  and  she  laid  a  restraining 
hand  upon  the  distracted  woman. 

"Praise  the  Lord !  —  He's  sent  a  witness  —  He's 
sent  a  witness  —  "  shouted  a  zealous  soul  near  by ; 
and  another  hymn  was  started. 

''Witness  —  witness  —  "  Joan  reiterated.  Seizing 
the  perfectly  demoralized  Mrs.  Hicks,  Joan  shook 
her,  soundly,  as  she  demanded  "Air  yuh  clear  plum' 
crazy,  Brack?  —  yuh  got  religion  long  and  long  —  " 

But  Mrs.  Hicks  was  beyond  reason. 

"Brack  Hicks  —  if  you-uns  don't  shut  up 
moughty  quick,  yuh'll  have  the  preacher  an  all  the 
other  'ns  right  down  yere  onto  us!  —  yuh  hear?  — 
what's  hit  —  anyways  ?" 

"Hit  war  a  snake,  Joan  —  a  cold,  slimy  snake !  — 
an  yuh  knows  how  I  hate  snakes,"  moaned  Mrs. 
Hicks,  feebly.  "An  't  war  in  my  hand  —  right  yere 
in  my  hand!"  shuddering. 

"A  snake  —  "  and  Joan  scanned  the  ground,  nar- 
rowly, "hit  must  have  dumb  up  into  yer  lap  whilst 
we-uns  war  a-settin  there.  Mought  have  knowed 
better  than  to  set  plum  up  against  a  stump  —  any- 
ways," she  added. 

"I  clar  for  't,  Joan,"  Brackie  burst  forth,  petu- 
lantly, "wouldn't  yuh  think  that  anybody  that  hates 
snakes  like  I  do,  could  manage  to  keep  away  from 
'em  —  wouldn't  yuh  now?" 

"Aw  —  well  —  never  mind,  Brackie  —  it's  all  over 


LINDY  LOYD  131 

now,"  soothed  Joan  as  they  moved  farther  within  the 
circle.  But  Brackie  refused  to  reseat  herself. 

In  the  meantime,  the  interest  and  excitement  of 
the  worshipers  had  increased.  "Come  to  the  altar 
—  come  now !  —  tomorrow  may  be  too  late  —  " 
pleaded  the  preacher  —  continuing  with  dramatic 
effect  —  "the  Angel  of  Death  is  mebbe  a-creepin  — 
an  a-creepin  —  an  a-creepin  clost  to  yuh  — 
a-reachin  out  his  cold,  clammy  fingers  for  yuh,  right 
now !  —  yes  —  "  with  startling  emphasis  —  "right 
now!"  and  a  woman  shrieked  aloud.  Another  sank 
to  the  ground  in  violent  contortions. 

Then  followed  a  scene  impossible  to  describe.  The 
space  near  the  altar  was  filled  with  suppliants  while 
cries  and  groans  arose  on  every  side.  In  and  out 
among  the  distraught,  kneeling  throng  passed  the 
lay-helpers,  urging,  exhorting,  denouncing. 

Hugh  and  Lindy  had  remained  silent  spectators  of 
the  scene,  Hugh's  entire  attitude  one  of  protest. 

"You  do  not  like  it,  Hugh?"  whispered  the  girl, 
peering  into  his  white,  set  face. 

"It  is  horrible,  Lindy  —  horrible  —  that!"  indi- 
cating the  writhing  figure  upon  the  ground.  "Ah, 
come  away,  Lindy  —  come  away,  now !"  and  Hugh 
lifted  the  girl  to  her  feet.  "We  will  go  outside  — 
out  into  God's  quiet,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  Hugh  —  wait  a  bit,"  pleaded  the  girl. 

"Very  well  —  as  you  will,  then.  But  this  crazed, 
shouting  multitude  does  not  suggest  the  religion  of 
Our  Lord  to  me,  Lindy  • —  not  to  me." 


132  LINDY  LOYD 

"Ah,  yes,  Hugh  —  but  —  " 

And  Hugh  yielded. 

At  this  moment  Brother  Barruss  arose  and  began 
to  pray;  his  magnetic,  quiet  tones,  clothed  in  the 
familiar  homely  expressions  of  everyday  life,  falling 
like  balm  upon  the  disquieted,  sobbing  multitude. 
Ah  —  was  he  not  one  of  them?  Did  not  he,  too, 
know  the  loneliness,  the  temptation  and  bitterness, 
the  absolute  hardness  of  their  lives  —  the  utter 
lack  of  any  incentive  to  amendment  ?  —  "Lord,  we 
uns  be  Thy  childern,"  he  pleaded;  "hongrey  often, 
bitter  an  desperate  often;  kem  times  whenst  hit  be 
all  blackness  —  no  light,  no  hope  anywheres.  We 
have  withstood  Thee  —  have  turned  away  from  Thee ; 
—  we  have  follered  the  Devil  so  long,  that  now,  he 
will  not  let  we-alls  go.  Lord!"  he  cried  with  sudden 
fervor,  "help  the  pore  soul  as  is  a-wantin  to  kem  to 
Thee  —  an  cannot !  help  'im !  —  help  'im  now!  —  oh, 
Lord!" 

He  ceased.  Upon  the  throbbing,  expectant  silence 
fell  the  heart-wrung  sigh  of  a  soul  in  conflict ;  —  and 
Si  Etter,  his  face  white  and  tense,  arose  and  joined 
the  kneeling  throng. 


CHAPTER    XX 

THE  weeks  passed  and,  in  the  meantime,  the 
mountains  had  taken  on  a  new  phase  of 
beauty.  Swiftly,  silently,  the  Spirit  of 
Autumn  passed  through  the  forest  —  giving  soft 
touches  here,  a  breath  there  —  and  her  brilliant 
colors  hung  everywhere. 

There  came  nights  of  heavy  frost  followed  by  days 
of  storm  and  the  boughs  shook  down  their  fruitage ; 
and  the  tiny  wood-dwellers,  laboring  patiently, 
steadily,  added  plenteously  to  the  stores  put  by  for 
the  long  period  of  seclusion  before  them. 

Many  a  delightful  tramp  had  Hugh  and  Lindy 
shared,  returning  with  numerous  trophies.  Lindy 
was  a  delightful  companion.  Fearless,  sure  of  foot, 
she  trod  the  mountain  ways  and  together  they  scaled 
rocky  points  and  penetrated  into  the  hidden  places. 
Upon  one  memorable  occasion  —  clinging  like  goats 
to  their  uncertain  foothold  —  they  gaily  followed 
the  course  of  the  mountain  stream  as  it  vanished 
under  great,  overhanging  cliffs,  swept  down  over  the 
rocks  and  wound  on  through  deep,  gloomy  caverns 
—  emerging,  with  it,  into  the  clear  sunshine  again. 

To-day,  the  two  were  returning  from  a  nutting 
ISS 


134  LINDY  LOYD 

expedition,  following  a  trail  that  led  through  the 
lumber-camp;  Hugh,  with  a  bag  of  nuts  slung 
over  his  shoulder  —  Lindy,  laden  with  spoils  of  va- 
rious sorts. 

The  forest  was  wonderful  in  its  blaze  of  coloring, 
its  endless  variety  of  hue.  Great,  lichen-covered 
rocks,  at  whose  feet  trailed  brilliantly  tinted  vines, 
rose  everywhere.  Along  the  road,  everywhere,  grew 
the  asters  —  purple,  yellow  and  white;  starry-eyed 
daisies  nodding  at  their  feet.  Great  clumps  of 
mountain-laurel  and  holly,  the  latter  with  its  glossy 
green  leaves  and  promise  of  berries,  stood  on  every 
side.  In  the  distance  glowed  the  rich  blood-red  of 
the  sumach.  Scattered  along  the  trail  were  the  red 
hips  of  the  eglantine  and  the  yellow  fruit  of  the  wild 
nettle.  Yonder,  a  cluster  of  golden-rod  tossed  its 
yellow  plumes;  near  by  rose  the  tall  milk-weed,  its 
slender  pods  bursting  with  silky  fruit.  Nearer  earth, 
multitudinous  "low-bush"  huckleberries  glowed  in 
fervid  tints.  Directly  underfoot,  peeping  through 
the  mosses,  could  be  seen  the  vivid  green  of  the 
running-cedar,  the  rich,  russet-brown  of  the  galax 
and  the  shining  arbutus  leaves ;  while  clinging  closer 
to  earth,  if  one  knew  where  to  look,  could  be  found 
the  delicate  mitchella  with  its  ruddy  fruit,  the  win- 
tergreen  and  the  snow-berry. 

"Not  many  more  times,  now,  Hugh,"  said  Lindy, 
sadly,  as  they  came  slowly  up  the  trail  to  the  old 
camp. 


LINDY  LOYD  135 

"No  —  not  many  more,"  Hugh  agreed,  briefly. 

"I  shall  always  love  this  place  —  and  the  old 
pine  —  "  and  Lindy  laid  her  soft  cheek  caressingly 
against  the  rough  bark  —  "when  you  are  —  when 
you  are  away,  Hugh,  I  shall  come  here  often,  and 
often.  But  you  —  you  will  not  hear  me  when  — 
when  I  give  the  whippoorwill's  call.  Oh,  Hugh !"  and 
Lindy  hid  her  face  on  Hugh's  breast. 

"Don't,  Lindy  —  don't !"  Hugh  commanded,  pas- 
sionately, folding  the  girl  closely  to  him.  "Listen !" 
he  softly  pleaded,  "there  is  no  other  way  —  is  there? 
—  looking  towards  the  best  interests  of  our  future?" 

"No  —  there  is  no  other  way,"  Lindy  replied. 
And  the  two  were  silent,  each  endeavoring  to  face  the 
empty  days  that  stretched  before  them. 

"How  much  time  have  we  —  now  —  Hugh?"  Lindy 
inquired,  presently. 

"Two  weeks  —  perhaps  —  maybe  less.  I  should 
hear,  soon,  from  my  college  in  regard  to  the  propo- 
sition for  next  year.  When  I  hear,  Lindy  —  I  must 
not  delay." 

"No  —  "  and  again  silence  fell. 

"It  has  been  such  a  dear  summer,  Hugh,"  Lindy 
began,  "I  —  I  am  afraid  to  have  it  end." 

"When  you  are  my  wife  —  " 

"When  I  am  your  wife!"  reiterated  the  girl,  pas- 
sionately, "Ah  —  but  that's  just  it — just  it, 
Hugh !"  and  Lindy  flung  her  arms  around  him,  lift- 
ing panic-stricken  eyes.  "Oh  —  I  am  afraid,  —  / 
am  afraid,  Hugh !"  she  sobbed. 


136  LINDY  LOYD 

"Afraid  —  Lindy  ?  —  of   what  ?" 

"Oh  —  I  do  not  know  —  I  cannot  put  it  into 
words  —  but  I  am  afraid  to  have  you  go  —  Hugh. 
I  —  I  —  have  such  a  horrible  fear  —  as  if  some  ter- 
rible thing  were  hanging  over  us  —  something  that 
will  certainly  come  between  us  and  our  love !  Could 
anything  come  between  us,  Hugh  —  could  anything?" 
and  Lindy  clung  desperately  to  him. 

"No,  Lindy  —  nothing  could  come  between  us  — 
nothing!"  Hugh  solemnly  affirmed,  his  arms  close 
about  the  trembling  girl,  his  eyes  gazing  straight 
into  hers. 

But  Lindy  hid  her  face,  shuddering. 

"It  is  not  like  you,  Lindy  —  to  be  afraid,"  Hugh 
urged,  presently. 

"No  —  and  I  will  not  be !  I  will  be  good,  Hugh  — 
7  will  —  you  shall  see !"  Lindy  cried,  gaily,  dashing 
away  the  tears.  "The  time  will  pass  —  and  —  and 
by  and  by  will  come  the  anniversary  and  you  will  be 
here  —  Hugh  —  right  here!  —  think  of  it!  —  won't 
I  give  the  call  good  and  strong,  then  Hugh?  —  Lis- 
ten!—  just  like  this":  And  the  girl's  voice  rang  out 
clear  and  lifelike  in  the  whippoorwill's  call.  "Will 
you  come,  Hugh?"  and  Lindy's  arms  were  about  his 
neck,  her  lips  to  his. 

"I  will  come,  Lindy  —  if  I  have  life  in  my  body, 
I  -will  come"  Hugh  reiterated,  solemnly. 


CHAPTER    XXI 

THE  hunter  considers  the  wild  turkey  to  be  one 
of  the  most  cunning  of  the  forest  creatures. 
Its  keenness  of  sight,  hearing  and  even  of 
scent  —  if  one  may  accept  the  hunter's  version  —  is 
marvellous.  United  with  these  characteristics,  a 
swiftness  of  wing,  an  incredible  rapidity  of  foot  and 
an  exceeding  wariness,  make  the  bagging  of  wild 
turkey  an  achievement. 

Lindy  frequently  accompanied  her  father  upon 
his  hunting  expeditions  and  the  two  had  started  at 
day-break  for  wild  turkey.  Clad  in  her  hunting- 
garb  :  trousers,  coat,  leggins  and  cap,  the  girl  looked 
not  unlike  a  handsome,  slender  boy  stepping  lightly 
along  at  Mitry's  side ;  and  his  pride  in  her  and  in  her 
hunting  exploits  was  great. 

Meanwhile,  seated  in  Mrs.  Hicks'  cabin,  Joan  and 
Brackie  were  adding  stitches  innumerable  to  a 
"Weepm'-willer"  quilt. 

"Brackie,  where'd  you-uns  been  yesterday,  whenst 
yuh  kem  by  ?"  Joan  demanded. 

Mrs.  Hicks,  engaged  in  the  useless  attempt  to 
sharpen  her  thread  with  toothless  gums,  did  not  im- 
mediately reply.  Presently  she  began,  haltingly: 

137 


138  LINDY  LOYD 

"I'd  bin  over  —  been  over  to  Miz  Rogan's  to  borry 

—  to  borry  —  to  borry  this  yere  blame  thread!"  she 
concluded,  tempestuously,  flinging  down  her  needle; 
and  she  began  to  search  here  and  there  about  the 
room. 

Joan  sniffed,  eloquently.  "Have  yuh  lost  'em 
again?"  she  drawled. 

Mrs.  Hicks  made  no  reply. 

"Mebbe,  now,  you've  left  'em  over  to  Miz  Rogan's 

—  once  more"  suggested  her  tormenter,  sweetly. 
"Mebbe  I  have  —  an  mebbe  I  haven't,"  snapped 

Brackie,  peering  into  likely  and  unlikely  places. 
"Huh!  yere  yuh  be  —  eh?"  she  apostrophized,  sud- 
denly, as  she  overturned  a  pile  of  carpet-rags;  and 
clapping  the  missing  requisites  into  her  mouth,  Mrs. 
Hicks  settled  contentedly  back  to  her  quilting. 

"Spose  you-alls  folkses  got  off  on  the  turkey- 
hunt,  Joan?" 

"Yep  —  off  before  sun-up ;  be  gone  'till  dark 
night,  most  likely  —  if  't  ain't  more  than  that," 
Joan  added. 

"Hope  Lindy,  she  won't  get  hurted,  none,"  Mrs. 
Hicks  admonished. 

Joan  made  no  response. 

"Them  wild  turkeys,  they's  bodaciously  good 
eatin'  now  with  the  nuts  all  down,"  Mrs.  Hicks 
went  on.  "Miz  Rogan,  she  war  a-tellin  that  Sim,  he'd 
bin  up  on  the  mountain  an  had  brung  hum  two  of 
'em.  Seems  he'd  yelped  'em  up." 


LINDY  LOYD  139 

"Well,"  replied  Joan,  "Mitry  Loyd,  he  is  queer 
that  aways  —  an  Lindy,  she's  no  better  'bout  't, 
nuther.  Mitry,  he  sez  the  wild  turkey  is  a  noble  bird ; 
an  if  so  be  he  can't  take  'im  fair  and  square,  he  won't 
take  'im  at  all.  No  yelpin  'im  up,  nor  a-baitin  of 
'im,  nor  a-shootin  'im  on  the  roost  for  'im  —  sez 
Mitry  Loyd." 

"Everybody  to  their  likin's,"  was  the  retort. 

"Brackie,  what  did  Miz  Rogan  have  to  say,  yes- 
terday?" Joan  went  on. 

"Not  much  of  anything.  Said  she'd  been  up  to 
the  Sykes's,  just  the  yuther  day.  Pears  like  Miz 
Sykes,  she  war  a-spectin  Softy  out  the  jail-house  — 
kem  the  next  mornin." 

"An  then  for  some  more  drinkin's  and  fightin's, 
yep  —  and  killins,  too,  just  like's  not.  Softy  Sykes, 
he  air  a  bad  feller,  Brackie." 

"Mebbe,  now,  Softy  ain't  so  bad,  Joan." 

"How  'bout  that  man  as  war  killed  —  yep,  killed, 
in  that  fight  at  Leary's  not  so  long  ago,  Brackie?" 

"Hass,  he  said  that  nobody  know'd  who  't  wuz  as 
killed  that  feller,  Joan." 

"Well  —  spose  Hass,  he  war  'bliged  to  know," 
significantly. 

"A-meanin'  —  " 

"Wan't  Hass  there,  Brackie?" 

"Yep  —  he  war  there  —  "  reluctantly. 

"Well  —  "  and  silence  fell. 

Hass,  meanwhile,  recovered  from  his   encounter 


140  LINDY   LOYD 

with  the  revenue  officer,  brooded  in  the  "jail-house." 
During  the  first  days  of  his  arrival,  lying  upon  his 
pallet,  he  had  overheard  bits  of  conversation  relating 
to  the  matter  of  his  arrest  —  stray  fragments  in 
which  the  name  of  Mitry  Loyd  occasionally  figured. 
As  he  grew  stronger,  aided  by  his  hatred  of  Mitry 
and  by  his  own  black  imaginings,  he  had  pieced  to- 
gether, had  so  turned  and  twisted  these  fragments, 
until,  in  the  face  of  all  reason,  he  became  firmly  con- 
vinced that  Mitry  had  "turned  revenoor"  and  was, 
therefore,  the  direct  cause  of  his  imprisonment.  This 
belief  but  added  to  his  hate;  and  when  Hass  finally 
left  jail,  it  was  with  a  fixed  determination  to  "get 
even"  with  Mitry  Loyd. 

Through  his  crony,  Hite  Cronce,  Hass  had  been 
able  to  obtain  information  upon  other  and  vital 
matters  of  interest  occurring  at  home  —  particu- 
larly, in  regard  to  the  progress  of  Hugh  Humph- 
rey's infatuation  for  Lindy;  information,  how- 
ever, which  added  greatly  to  his  discomfort,  as  evi- 
denced by  his  explosions  of  rage  during  Kite's  re- 
cital. "An  Hass,"  said  Hite,  significantly,  as  he 
concluded  his  narration,  "I  callate  you-uns  have  some 
work  laid  out  before  yuh  —  whenst  you-uns  gets 
out." 

"An  I  just  nacherly  callates  to  get  't  done,"  mut- 
tered Hass,  grimly. 

Recently  there  had  arrived  at  the  jail  from  the 
neighborhood  of  Hass's  home  —  a  worthless,  shift- 


LINDY  LOYD  141 

less  fellow,  Softy  Sykes  by  name,  sent  up  for  partici- 
pation in  a  drunken  brawl.  As  was  perhaps  inev- 
itable, the  two  immediately  fraternized. 

Softy  Sykes,  as  his  name  may  indicate,  was  not  a 
born  leader  of  men;  rather  was  he  a  follower.  Nev- 
ertheless, he  possessed  sufficient  wit  to  enable  him  to 
turn  the  ordinary  course  of  human  affairs  to  his  own 
ends ;  —  and  it  was  not  long  before  he  discovered 
Hass's  attitude  towards  Mitry  Loyd. 

So  it  was  Mitry  who  had  "turned  revenoor?"  pon- 
dered Softy.  Very  well  —  then  —  Softy,  too,  had  a 
grudge  against  the  man.  Was  not  his  own  still 
among  the  number  raided  upon  the  day  following 
Hass's  disastrous  encounter?  Was  not  the  very 
finest  of  whiskey  simply  stolen  from  him  and  the 
labor  of  days  reduced  to  nought?  And  if  Mitry 
Loyd  was  concerned  in  Hass's  misfortune,  why  not 
in  mine,  reasoned  Softy. 

"Hass,"  he  submitted,  "I'd  like  moughty  well  to 
get  even  with  Mitry  Loyd." 

"Yer  would?"  —  Hass  replied;  and  the  two  plot- 
ted revenge. 


CHAPTER    XXII 

MISS  LUCIE  SIMMONS  and  Hugh  Humph- 
rey were  out  upon  the  mountains.  They 
had  topped  the  rise  and  halted,  spell-bound, 
at  the  wonder  of  mountain,  valley  and  stream.  Peak 
beyond  peak  rose  the  mountains,  now  wrapped  in 
blackest  shadow,  anon,  flaming  in  splendid  hues.  Be- 
tween, were  glimpses  of  hidden  coves,  alluring  in 
sombreness.  Directly  below  them  stretched  the  val- 
ley; through  its  fields  of  autumn  verdure  bubbled 
and  gleamed  the  mountain  stream. 

It  was  a  golden  day  following  a  night  of  storm, 
with  the  air  clear  and  exhilarating;  and  as  the 
wheels  sank  softly  into  the  forest  mould,  the  delight- 
ful freshness  of  moist  earth  and  dying  leaves,  the 
indescribable  odor  of  the  woods  arose. 

The  atmosphere,  purified  by  the  recent  storm, 
possessed  that  wonderful  effect  of  clearness,  which 
takes  no  note  of  distance.  Fascinated,  they  lingered, 
and  clear  and  distinct  to  the  ear  came  the  sweet, 
mellow  tone  of  a  far-away  bell,  the  sound  of  the 
wood-chopper's  axe  and  the  soft  thud  of  falling 
nuts. 

"But  it  is  wonderful  —  wonderful  —  all  of  it !  I 
shall  never  forget  it !"  breathed  Miss  Lucie. 


LINDY  LOYD  143 

Presently  they  passed  a  wide-spreading  chestnut- 
tree,  its  burs  bursting  with  fruitage.  The  ground 
beneath  was  covered  with  an  alluring  quantity  of 
nuts  and  Hugh  turned  to  Miss  Lucie  in  mute  query. 

"Oh,  yes  —  yes  —  "  was  the  eager  response,  add- 
ing, wistfully  "if  I  could  only  help  gather  —  " 

"Yo*  can,  honey  chile  —  yo'  can  —  "  cried  the 
faithful  Mammy  Lu;  and  Miss  Lucie  was  soon  set- 
tled in  a  sunny,  dry  spot  beneath  the  tree. 

"Dem  nuts  up  dar,  dey  is  des  a-honin'  to  come 
down,  Mistah  Hugh,"  insinuated  Mammy. 

"That's  so,"  agreed  Hugh  —  "shall  I  —  Miss 
Lucie?"  and  she  nodded  a  happy  acquiescence.  Soon 
the  nuts  came  pelting  down. 

"Here  —  Miss  Lucie  —  here  are  all  the  colors  of 
the  dying  foliage  —  catch !"  and  Hugh  tossed  a 
splendid  bur,  filled  with  fruit,  into  Miss  Lucie's  lap. 

It  was  an  exquisite  bit.  The  golden,  velvet-lined 
cup,  tipped  with  creamiest  yellow,  had  flung  wide 
its  sheltering  walls  and  nestling  deep  within,  clothed 
in  silvery,  reddish  brown,  lay  the  nuts.  Outside,  was 
the  dark,  fibrous  covering,  protected  by  the  yellow 
spines,  deepened  to  somber  brown  at  the  roots.  It 
was  a  poem  —  a  story;  in  its  coloring,  a  perfect 
reproduction  of  its  forest  home. 

"When  are  you  coming  down?"  cried  Miss  Lucie. 

"I  am  coming  now,"  and  stepping  lightly  from 
limb  to  limb,  Hugh  rapidly  descended  the  tree.  Sud- 
denly an  ominous  creaking  was  heard. 


144  LINDY   LOYD 

"Oh  —  be  careful  —  Hugh  —  be  careful!" 
shrieked  Miss  Lucie  and  with  a  sickening  wrench 
the  limb  fell  to  the  ground. 

As  Hugh  sprang  for  a  safer  foothold,  his  head 
came  into  violent  contact  with  the  body  of  the  tree. 
Dazed,  uncertain,  he  slipped,  clutched  ineffectually 
for  a  hold  —  then  dropped  below. 

"Hugh  —  Hugh!  Mammy  —  oh,  Mammy!" 
screamed  Miss  Lucie,  frantically;  and  with  the 
strength  of  despair  she  dragged  her  maimed  body 
towards  the  unconscious  man. 

"He  am'  daid,  Baby — Mistah  Hugh  am'  daid  —  " 
comforted  Mammy,  her  ear  against  Hugh's  heart, 
"it  am  only  stun.  What  dat  watah  I  hears  a-run- 
nin  —  whar?"  and  Mammy  glanced  searchingly 
about. 

"Quick  —  Mammy  —  quick!  lay  his  head  here  — 
here  in  my  lap  —  so !  Now  run,  Mammy  —  run  for 
the  water!  —  hurry  oh,  hurry  —  Mammy !"  But 
Mammy  needed  no  second  bidding. 

"He  will  die  —  he  will  die  —  "  moaned  Miss  Lucie, 
her  eyes  upon  the  white  face.  "Oh  Hugh,  —  my 
darling  —  my  darling  — "  and  her  arms  closed 
tightly  about  him. 

"Sweetheart  —  sweetheart  —  "  Hugh  muttered, 
dully;  and  the  unseeing  eyes  opened  and  closed, 
wearily.  Over  the  face  of  the  girl  bending  above 
him,  swept  a  light,  ineffable. 

At  this  instant  Mammy  returned.    Placing  Hugh 


LINDY  LOYD  145 

flat  upon  the  ground  she  applied  the  cold  spring 
water.  "He  heaps  bettah  —  Missy  -7—  am  nawthin 
de  mattah  wid  Mistah  Hugh  but  des  stun,"  she  re- 
iterated, presently;  and  in  a  short  time  full  con- 
sciousness returned  and  soon  Hugh  declared  himself 
ready  to  start  down  the  mountain. 

"Lil  Missy,"  murmured  Mammy  Lu,  as  she  set- 
tled the  weary  girl  back  into  the  carriage,  "yo-all's 
eyes  —  dey  look  lak  —  dey  look  lak  yo'd  seen  er 
Angel." 

"Maybe  I  have,  Mammy,"  was  the  whispered 
reply. 

And  that  night,  during  the  intervals  of  sleep,  Miss 
Lucie's  voice  could  be  heard  in  restless  dreaming. 
Bending  over  the  unquiet  sleeper  one  might  distin- 
guish, in  happy  murmurings :  "Sweetheart  —  sweet- 
heart —  sweetheart  —  " 

"Hope  'fore  de  Lawd  dat  dis  yere  'citement  won* 
kill  my  honey  chile,"  came  sleepily  from  the  dusky 
watcher  beside  the  bed. 

And  Hugh  Humphrey  —  tossing  in  broken  slum- 
ber :  —  "I  wonder  —  I  wonder  —  now  —  I  would 
have  sworn  that  Lindy  was  there.  Strange  —  Lindy, 
oh,  Lindy  —  "  and  he  dozed  off  again. 

Late  the  following  afternoon,  Hugh,  his  hands 
filled  with  time-tables,  tags  and  various  et  cetera  in- 
cident to  travelling,  entered  Miss  Lucie's  sitting- 
room.  Crossing  over  to  the  fireplace  he  stationed 
himself  upon  the  rug  to  await  her  coming. 


146  LINDY  LOYD 

Time  passed.  The  room  lay  in  shadow  and 
peace,  the  only  light  the  soft  glow  from  the  fire. 
Soothed  by  his  surroundings,  Hugh  fell  a-dreaming, 
his  thoughts  reverting  to  the  dominant  passion  of 
his  life:  to  Lindy,  his  sweet  wood-flower.  Drawing 
her  pictured  face  from  his  breast  he  bent  over  it, 
absorbed.  "Sweetheart  —  ah  —  sweetheart  —  "  he 
murmured. 

"You  like  the  picture,  Hugh?"  came  a  soft  voice; 
and  Miss  Lucie,  her  face  glorified,  her  hands  held 
out  in  timid  appeal,  came  towards  him. 

Startled,  Hugh  thrust  the  picture  back  within  its 
hiding-place  and  seized  the  out-stretched  hands. 
"Aw  —  aw  —  sit  here  —  Miss  Lucie  —  aw  —  yes  — 
sit  right  here,"  he  stammered.  Leading  her  to  a 
chair  he  seated  her,  comfortably. 

"I  hoped  you  would  care  for  the  picture,  Hugh," 
Miss  Lucie  went  on,  "I  —  I  put  it  there  —  on  the 
mantel  —  to-day,"  she  added,  blushing  happily. 

Hugh,  stared,  bewildered. 

"Listen,  Hugh,"  she  went  on,  her  eyes  downcast, 
"I  —  I  have  something  to  say  and  —  and  I  do  not 
know  how  to  say  it  —  how  to  go  on  — ."  Suddenly 
Miss  Lucie  sat  bolt  upright.  "I  will  say  it  —  Hugh 
—  yes,  /  will!  —  why  not?  —  Hugh?"  and  turning 
away  her  blushing  face  she  stammered :  "Will  —  will 
you  marry  me  —  Hugh  —  ah  —  could  you?"  And 
before  the  astounded  man  could  grasp  the  situation 
Miss  Lucie  went  on,  pleadingly :  "I  know  that  I  am 


LINDY  LOYD  147 

miserable  —  I  am  ill  —  and  I  am  maimed ;  —  but  — 
but  I  love  you  —  Hugh  —  "  she  concluded,  simply. 

Speechless,  overwhelmed,  Hugh  stood  before  Miss 
Lucie,  his  staring  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  her  amazing 
communication  beating  against  his  brain. 

Again  the  soft,  halting  utterance  "We  could  go 
abroad,  Hugh  —  you  could  study.  There  —  there 
is  plenty  of  money.  It  would  be  yours,  eventually 

—  and  oh,  Hugh  —  I  need  you  so  —  /  need  you 
so  —  "     Placing  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  her  face 
uplifted,  Miss  Lucie  added,  softly  —  "and  it  —  it 
would  not  be  for  long  —  Hugh?  —  " 

"Miss  Lucie  —  my  dear  Miss  Lucie,"  gasped 
Hugh,  as  he  struggled  to  rally  his  utterly  routed 
forces,  "I  —  I  am  engaged  —  I  am  engaged  to  marry 
another.  Did  you  not  know  it  —  Miss  Lucie?" 

Slowly  Miss  Lucie  rose  and  leaned,  white  and 
trembling,  against  the  chair.  "Did  —  did  you  say 
that  you  were  engaged  to  marry  —  to  marry  another 

—  Hugh?"  she  said,  her  utterance  indistinct  and 
lifeless. 

"Yes  —  " 

Miss  Lucie  swayed,  slightly. 

"Ah  —  dear  Miss  Lucie !  —  let  me  help  you  — 
let  me!"  and  Hugh  sprang  forward,  all  his  splendid 
manhood  aroused  by  the  severe  demands  of  the  occa- 
sion ;  by  the  desire  to  assist  —  to  shield,  if  possible, 
the  sweet  soul  before  him. 

But  Miss  Lucie  refused  Hugh's  proffered  assist- 


148  LINDY  LOYD 

ance.  "No  —  oh,  no  —  wait  —  I  am  not  going  to 
faint,"  she  whispered,  wanly,  clinging  desperately  to 
her  support. 

Hugh  stood  miserably  before  her. 

Presently  she  regained  control.  "But  —  but  the 
picture  —  you  —  I  saw  —  " 

"Was  Lindy's  picture.  The  girl  I  am  to  marry. 
Ah  —  Miss  Lucie  —  "  he  burst  forth  —  "If  I  have 
added  another  burden  to  your  already  difficult  life 
—  Ah  —  what  can  I  do  ?  Can  you  forgive  me  —  " 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive,  Hugh,  nothing.  It 
was  all  a  mistake  —  a  most  miserable  mistake  of 
mine  —  of  mine,  Hugh,"  emphatically.  "I  —  I 
think  I  will  go  —  now  —  Hugh,"  she  added,  wearily. 
"You  will  have  to  help  me  —  "  turning  to  him. 

Hugh's  strong  clasp  closed  firmly  over  the  trem- 
bling hand  and  he  guided  Miss  Lucie  across  the  room 
with  even  more  than  his  usual  care  and  deference. 

"Hugh  —  "  as  she  reached  the  door  —  and  Miss 
Lucie's  voice  was  but  a  faint  whisper :  "if  —  if 
you  find  you  can  come  —  ever  —  "  and  she  passed 
from  his  sight. 

"Ye  gods  —  ye  gods!"  demanded  Hugh  a  few 
moments  later,  his  face  upturned  to  the  quiet  sky. 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

HASS  returned  from  jail,  his  standing  in  the 
community  in  no  smallest  degree  affected 
by  his  incarceration. 

As  has  been  intimated,  any  suggestion  of  disgrace 
in  connection  with  an  arrest  for  illegal  distilling  ap- 
peals not  at  all  to  the  mountaineer.  Secure  in  his 
belief  in  his  God-given  right  to  moonshine  —  to 
wrest  from  his  rocky,  unproductive  soil  whatever  of 
maintenance  may  be  possible  —  he  proceeds  serenely 
on  his  way,  counting  his  liability  for  arrest  but  a 
misfortune  common  to  all  —  to  be  avoided  if  prac- 
ticable, otherwise,  to  be  stolidly  endured.  From 
his  point  of  view,  such  an  happening  —  under  no 
circumstances  whatsoever  —  could  for  one  moment 
be  compared  with  the  calamity,  the  lasting  ignominy 
of  being  sent  to  the  "po'-house." 

Mass's  confinement  did  not  lead  to  any  betterment 
of  his  naturally  evil  disposition.  His  long  brooding 
over  wrongs  —  real  and  fancied  —  together  with  his 
unwholesome  association  with  Softy  Sykes,  could  but 
be  productive  of  evil  and  he  left  the  jail  with  two 
resolves  clear  and  distinct  in  his  mind:  to  get  even 
with  Mitry  Loyd  and  to  marry  Lindy.  As  for  Hugh 

149 


150  LINDY  LOYD 

Humphrey  —  "Let  'im  look  to  hisself  —  damn  'im !" 
muttered  Hass. 

Going  down  the  trail  one  afternoon,  shortly  after 
his  return  from  jail,  Hass  heard  voices  approaching. 
Not  being  particularly  burdened  with  fineness  of 
principle,  and  rendered  doubly  suspicious  at  the 
present  time,  Hass  secreted  himself  to  await  what 
might  occur.  Presently  Hugh  Humphrey  and  Lindy, 
entirely  oblivious  of  all  but  the  delight  of  the  present 
moment,  came  strolling  up  the  trail,  hand  in  hand. 

To  the  miserable  man,  consumed  by  the  hopeless- 
ness of  his  unrequited  love,  this  spectacle  but  added 
fuel  to  the  flame.  Only  by  a  strong  effort,  aided  by 
a  grim  renewal  of  his  vow  of  unsparing  retribution 
upon  Hugh,  was  Hass  able  to  control  his  bitter, 
black  passion  and  to  remain  quietly  in  hiding.  De- 
termining that  he  would  seek  Lindy  without  delay 
and  at  all  hazards  —  by  hook  or  by  crook  —  wring 
from  her  a  promise  to  marry  him,  Hass  watched 
the  two  from  sight. 

In  accordance  with  his  determination,  Hass 
watched  his  opportunity  and  the  following  day,  as 
Lindy  again  came  up  the  trail,  he  suddenly  planted 
himself  before  her. 

"Oh  —  howdy,  Hass,"  cried  the  girl,  brought  so 
unexpectedly  to  a  stand-still.  Recognizing  the  indi- 
cations of  a  possible  outbreak,  Lindy  waited  in  dig- 
nified silence. 

But  Hass,  vanquished  anew  by  the  girl's  beauty 


LINDY  LOYD  151 

and  his  passion,  stood  speechless,  devouring  her.  And 
truly  Lindy  was  most  desirable  to  look  upon :  —  her 
youthful  face  in  its  sweet  purity,  the  frank,  open 
gaze,  the  soft,  rosy  cheeks  and  mouth  where  dimples 
lay  hidden,  the  curling  hair  blown  into  bewitching 
disorder,  presented  a  most  alluring  picture;  and 
Hass  could  but  succumb. 

"You-uns  be  so  blame  purty,  Lindy,"  he  burst 
forth  and  without  delay  plunged  immediately  into 
the  matter  in  hand:  "What's  hit?"  he  demanded, 
suspiciously,  reading  the  aversion  in  her  eyes. 

Lindy  made  no  reply. 

"Yuh  didn't  use  to  be  this  a-ways,  Lindy,"  scan- 
ning her  face. 

But  Lindy  continued  silent. 

"Lindy  —  leetle  Lindy  —  "  he  burst  forth,  des- 
perately, "I  always  a-spected  to  be  jined  to  yuh  — 
there  never  war  anybody  else.  An  I  can  make  you- 
uns  happy,  Lindy.  Hit  won't  be  so  bad  after  yuh 
get  used  to  me,"  he  pleaded.  "Lindy  —  be  jined  to 
me! — to  me — Lindy — oh,  Lindy — "  he  implored. 

"Hass,"  replied  Lindy,  gently,  impressed  by  the 
intensity,  the  utter  hopelessness  of  his  passion,  "why 
—  oh,  why  do  you  —  I  told  you  I  would  not  marry 
you ;  —  besides,  I  —  I  am  promised  to  —  " 

"Then  hit  be  'im  —  eh?  —  that  sneakin,  low-down 
doctor  feller !  —  the  one  I  see  yuh  with  yesterday  — 
Lindy !"  cried  Hass,  white  with  rage.  Drawing  near 
to  the  girl  he  thrust  his  face  into  hers  —  every 


152  LINDY  LOYD 

word  hissed  through  set  teeth  —  "Look  at  me, 
Lindy  —  look  at  me  an  listen  hard!  You-uns  —  goi- 
ter—  be  jined  —  to  me!  —  yuh  hear,  Lindy?"  he 
shouted,  "jined  —  to  —  me!" 

And  Lindy,  withdrawing  herself  from  his  insolent 
proximity,  fixed  her  fearless  gaze  upon  his  and 
answered,  deliberately,  unflinchingly:  "Hass  Hicks, 
I  will  never  marry  you !  never  —  never!  I  loathe  you 
— loathe  you!"  With  her  head  defiantly  uplifted, 
Lindy  marched  on  up  the  trail. 

Hass  stood  rooted  to  the  spot  his  eyes  glued  upon 
the  dauntless  little  figure  vanishing  up  the  mountain. 
"The  purty  leetle  devil !"  he  exploded.  With  a  mut- 
tered curse,  he  stumbled  on  down  the  trail. 

As  has  been  intimated,  Hass  had  greatly  degen- 
erated, having  indulged  his  evil  propensities  until  he 
had  become  rather  a  marked  man  in  the  community. 
Upon  one  or  two  rather  notorious  occasions  he  had 
barely  escaped  arrest ;  and  the  eyes  of  the  law  were 
upon  him. 

Although  Hass's  partnership  with  Mitry  in  the 
smaller  still  had  long  since  been  dissolved,  he  yet 
retained  his  connection  with  the  larger,  which  had 
continued  in  uninterrupted  operation  throughout  the 
season,  now  closing.  Since  his  return  to  the  "lor- 
rels,"  however,  his  generally  inebriated  condition  and 
persistent  manifestation  of  ill-temper  had  increased 
the  feeling  against  him  to  such  an  extent  that  but  a 
spark  was  necessary  to  cause  a  conflagration  and 
oust  him  altogether  from  the  business. 


LINDY  LOYD  153 

The  night  following  his  unsatisfactory  interview 
with  Lindy,  angry,  desperate,  filled  with  bitterness 
towards  all  mankind,  Hass  stole  into  the  cave  to 
find  Mitry  Loyd  the  only  occupant. 

For  a  while  the  two  men  pursued  their  work  in 
silence,  each  resentful  of  the  other's  presence.  But 
evil  was  in  the  air  —  and  Hass  was  ripe  for  mischief. 
This  being  the  situation,  it  was  not  long  before  suffi- 
cient occasion  arose. 

"Keep  out  of  my  way  —  damn  yuh !"  exploded 
Hass,  coming  into  contact  with  the  pails  of  mash  in 
Mitry's  hands. 

And  relinquishing  the  pails  Mitry  grimly  re- 
marked: "Reckon  I  just  nacherly  gotter  lick  yuh, 
Hass  —  been  a-waitin  for  a  chanct  this  yere  long 
whiles.  Kem  on  —  now  —  "  With  a  rush  the  two 
men  closed  and  the  long-delayed,  inevitable  fight 
was  on. 

To  and  fro  in  portentous  silence  swung  the  con- 
testants, the  labored  panting  breath  or  an  occa- 
sional scrape  of  the  foot  the  only  sounds.  Wary, 
each  watchful  for  a  moment's  weakness,  a  possible 
opportunity  to  floor  his  antagonist,  the  two  circled 
lightly  around  the  cave. 

Hass,  bent  upon  evil,  fought  with  the  strength 
of  fury,  reckless  of  result.  Mitry,  however,  wiry, 
muscular,  free  from  the  deteriorating  effect  of  intem- 
perance and  excess,  proved  to  be  a  difficult  oppo- 
nent, and  the  issue  remained  undecided. 


154  LINDY   LOYD 

Keenly  on  the  alert  for  probable  trickery, 
Mitry  was  in  a  measure  prepared  for  the  perfidious 
move  attempted  by  Hass.  Enraged  at  the  treachery 
of  the  act,  Mitry  suddenly  thrust  out  his  foot  and 
Hass  was  flung  squarely  upon  his  back. 

Infuriated,  Hass  sprang  dizzily  to  his  feet, 
weapon  in  hand. 

"Drop  that!"  shouted  Mitry.  Springing  for- 
ward he  struck  at  the  gun  which  flew  to  the  farther 
side  of  the  cave.  "The  blarsted  hound  —  couldn't 
even  fight  fair !"  he  panted. 

Hass  glared,  speechlessly,  around. 

"That's  'nough  —  now  —  Hass  —  yuh  can  light 
right  out'a  yere  —  an  the  quicker,  the  better," 
drawled  the  one  partner  — 

"An  yuh  can  keep  out  —  too,"  acquiesced  the 
other  —  both  of  whom  had  entered  the  cave,  mean- 
while, and  had  continued  appreciative  witnesses  of 
the  conflict.  Having  delivered  themselves  of  this 
ultimatum  they  quietly  proceeded  with  the  business  of 
the  evening. 

Baffled,  humiliated,  furious,  Hass  slunk  from  the 
cave  and  stumbled  off  down  the  mountain. 

As  was  to  be  expected  upon  their  release  from 
jail  Hass  and  Softy,  possessing  similar  inclina- 
tions, nursing  a  common  revenge,  had  soon  drifted 
together  again  —  their  rendezvous,  Softy's  old  still. 

Owing  to  Hass's  knowledge  of  Softy's  past  —  es- 
pecially of  one  dark  page  in  his  history,  particulars 


LINDY  LOYD  155 

of  which  Hass  had  wrung  from  him  while  in  jail, 
he  possessed  a  strong  hold  over  the  weaker  man  and 
could  compel  his  obedience  when  necessary. 

And  that  night  in  the  silence  and  secrecy  of  the 
old  still,  bitter,  raging,  consumed  with  hatred  of 
Mitry  Loyd,  Hass  perfected  his  wicked  machina- 
tions in  regard  to  him  —  Softy,  as  the  tool,  agree- 
ing to  certain  action  on  his  part  —  and  only  awaited 
opportunity  to  put  his  plans  into  effect. 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

A  DAY  or  two  after  the  incident  at  the  "lorrels," 
Lindy  was  hurrying  home  in  the  late  after- 
noon. She  had  been  delayed,  and,  as  fre- 
quently occurred  in  like  circumstances,  had  left  the 
trail  and  chosen  a  more  direct  route  which  would 
intersect  the  path  later  on.  Passing  lightly  along, 
she  crossed  a  tiny  stream  and  skirting  a  pile  of  rocks 
turned  directly  up  the  mountain. 

Suddenly  the  girl  paused  as  if  stricken  to  stone, 
her  attitude  one  of  extreme  attention. 

"I  certainly  heard  some  one  talking,"  she  mur- 
mured, glancing  in  every  direction.  "Yes  —  there 
it  is  again  —  and  it  is  Hass !  oh  —  where  is  he?"  and 
apprehensive  of  another  unpleasant  interview,  Lindy 
crouched  closely  against  the  pile  of  rocks. 

"Why  —  why  I  wonder  —  "  and  the  girl's  face 
was  illumined  —  "this  must  be  Softy's  old  still." 

"Yes  —  and  that  is  Hass,"  she  went  on,  presently, 
as  the  voices  rose  again  in  controversy.  "Why  — 
they  are  talking  of  Daddy!"  and  Lindy  placed  her 
ear  close  against  the  rock.  "Oh  —  oh  —  "  with 
whitening  face  the  girl  sprang  wildly  to  her  feet. 

"But  I  must  hear  —  I  must!"  she  murmured,  fran- 
156 


LINDY   LOYD  157 

tically ;  and  stepping  back,  Lindy's  experienced  eyes 
scanned  the  surface  of  the  rock. 

Was  that  —  ah,  yes,  it  was  a  tiny  fissure  near 
the  top.  Quickly  ascending  the  rock,  Lindy  gazed 
cautiously  through  the  narrow  opening.  It  was  as 
she  feared.  Hass  and  Softy  were  engaged  in  angry 
altercation  within  the  cave,  their  voices  rising  clear 
and  distinct  to  the  ear  of  the  horrified  girl. 

"What  air  yuh  a-waitin  for?  —  damn  yuh!" 
shouted  Hass;  and  raising  his  arm  he  felled  Softy 
to  the  earth.  "I  have  a  great  mind  to  kill  yuh, 
Softy,"  bending  over  the  prostrate  man,"  an  I  will  — 
if  yuh  don't  hurry  up  now  —  an  get  't  done." 

Softy  made  no  reply,  but  the  look  he  secretly  gave 
Hass,  as  he  arose  from  the  ground,  was  not  good 
to  see. 

"That  blame  skunk ;  he's  a-goin  up  to  the  "lorrels" 
again  tonight  an  yuh  can  get  'im  ez  he's  a-kemin 
down!  —  d'yuh  hear,  Softy?  —  get  Mitry  ez  he's 
—  a-kemin  —  down!  —  tonight!"  Hass  reiterated 
with  emphasis.  "An  that  damn  city  feller  —  yuh 
can  leave  'im  to  me,"  he  went  on,  his  hand  stealing 
to  his  hip-pocket,  an  evil  fire  glowing  in  his  eyes, 
"an  hit'll  be  the  first  chanct  I  gets  —  the  first  chanct! 
to-night,  mebbe,"  he  added,  grimly. 

"Oh,  Daddy  —  Daddy  —  Hugh  —  "  panted  the 
terror-stricken  girl,  "Oh  —  I  must  get  home  before 
Daddy  starts  for  the  "lorrels";  and  Lindy  fled  up 
the  mountain. 


158  LINDY  LOYD 

"Lindy —  Lindj  —  oh,  Lindy?"  and  Mrs.  Hicks 
suddenly  appeared  upon  the  trail.  "Lindy,"  she 
went  on,  "the  Kanes'  babby,  hit  have  took  a  fit 
again,  an  yer  Aunt  Joan,  she  —  " 

"Yes  —  yes  —  oh,  be  quick !  what  is  it?"  demanded 
Lindy,  consumed  with  desire  to  proceed. 

But  Mrs.  Hicks,  so  summarily  dealt  with,  stared 
speechless,  at  the  girl.  "Be  you-uns  clear  plum' 
crazy,  Lindy?"  she  admonished,  severely. 

But  Lindy  was  already  on  her  way. 

"An  yer  aunt,  she  told  me  to  tell  yuh,"  Mrs.  Hicks 
hurried  on,  her  voice  a  constantly  increasing  cres- 
cendo, "that  she  war  likely  to  stay  at  the  Kanes'  all 
night  an  I  wuz  to  kem  over  if  so  be  yuh  war  a-goin 
to  be  lonesome.  Shall  I  kem-m-m-m?"  her  recital 
ending  in  a  shriek. 

"Oh,  no!  —  don't  come  —  don't!"  Lindy  shouted 
back ;  and  she  vanished  up  the  mountain. 

"Well  —  I  —  never !  /  —  never!"  snorted  the  in- 
dignant Mrs.  Hicks,  gazing  after  the  flying  girl. 
"Don't  know  what's  a-gettin  into  folkses  these  yere 
days.  Now  —  what  d'yuh  spose  —  Laws-a-massy ! 
but  hit  do  beat  all  how  short  the  days  air  a-gettin," 
and  she  hurried  on  her  way. 

"Daddy  —  oh,  Daddy  —  "  called  Lindy,  as  she 
dropped,  white  and  exhausted  upon  the  door-step. 
But  there  was  no  response. 

"The  mash-pails !  maybe  —  "  she  exclaimed  with 
renewed  hope.  But  they,  too,  were  gone.  Realizing 


LINDY  LOYD  159 

that  her  father  had  started  up  the  mountain  and 
that  upon  herself  devolved  the  duty  of  warning  him, 
Lindy  turned  again  towards  the  trail. 

But  she  could  not  warn  both  Hugh  and  Daddy. 
There  was  not  sufficient  time.  Oh  —  what  should 
she  do  ?  —  what  ought  she  to  do  ?  If  only  Aunt 
Joan  —  or  somebody  —  were  here  to  share  the  awful 
burden  —  to  tell  her  how  to  proceed.  But  there 
was  no  one  —  no  one  —  and  time  was  passing  —  it 
had  already  grown  dark  —  soon  it  would  be  night ; 
and  recalling  Hass's  utterance  and  the  bitter  ma- 
lignity of  his  face,  Lindy  grew  frantic  with  appre- 
hension. 

Plainly,  the  entire  responsibility  was  upon  the 
girl's  shoulders.  As  this  realization  forced  itself 
upon  her,  Lindy  rallied  her  distraught  forces  and 
tried  to  grapple  with  the  situation.  Closing  her 
eyes  she  stood  for  a  moment  tense,  every  faculty 
bent  upon  wresting  a  path  through  the  cruel  laby- 
rinth of  circumstances  in  which  she  was  entangled. 

"I'll  do  it  —  yes,  I  will  —  there  is  no  other  way!" 
she  cried,  presently.  "I'll  go  back  there  and  I'll 
plead  with  Hass  !  —  perhaps  he  will  —  but  oh  — 
I  must  hurry !" 

With  a  vague  idea  of  protection  in  the  darkness, 
Lindy  donned  her  hunting-suit,  pulling  her  cap 
closely  down  about  her  face.  Placing  her  revolver 
within  her  bosom,  the  girl  went  forth  into  the  night. 

It  was  now  quite  dark  upon  the  mountain  and  the 


160  LINDY  LOYD 

trail  was  barely  perceptible.  But  Lindy  knew  her 
mountains  and  stepped  fearlessly  along.  How  still  it 
was.  How  mysterious  the  forest.  How  the  trees 
whispered  and  moaned,  reaching  out  long  arms  in 
ghostly  touches  as  she  passed.  But  already  the 
moon  was  heralding  the  glory  of  her  appearing  and 
behind  the  top  of  a  distant  peak  lay  a  glow  like  the 
heart  of  a  fire.  Leaving  the  trail  Lindy  entered 
again  upon  the  course  she  had  so  recently  traversed 
and  proceeding  directly  down  the  mountain  soon 
reached  the  old  still. 

"Dear  God  —  if  I  should  be  too  late  —  Softy 
may  already  be  on  his  way  up  the  mountain  —  "  she 
breathed,  her  pulses  riotous  with  apprehension. 

Now  Lindy  was  well  aware  that  she  was  doing  an 
unusual  thing  —  an  altogether  reprehensible  thing, 
in  coming  to  the  still  alone  at  night,  thus  seeking  out 
a  man  so  notorious  as  was  Hass.  Is  it  perfectly 
safe,  she  wondered,  particularly  now  that  Hass  was 
so  constantly  under  the  influence  of  liquor?  And 
then  his  awful  temper.  Hass's  fits  of  rage  had 
always  filled  Lindy  with  a  certain  amount  of  misgiv- 
ing —  brave  as  she  had  appeared.  Hitherto,  she 
had  been  able  to  control  the  situation.  But  could 
she  to-night  —  all  things  considered?  And  the  girl's 
blood  hammered  in  her  ears. 

But  the  circumstances  were  desperate.  There  ap- 
peared no  alternative  —  and  oh,  there  was  no  time 
to  lose.  If  Hass  should  get  beside  himself  —  and  — 


LINDY   LOYD  161 

forget  —  had  she  not  this?  her  hand  seeking  the 
tiny  protector  within  her  bosom;  and  hurriedly 
climbing  the  rock,  now  flooded  in  soft  radiance,  Lindy 
gazed  fearfully  down  through  the  fissure.  "Yes  — 
Softy  is  gone,"  she  gasped. 

With  the  exception  of  Softy's  absence,  the  situ- 
ation within  the  cave  remained  practically  un- 
changed. Hass,  his  head  fallen  forward,  was  sitting 
upon  an  upturned  keg  drowsing  before  the  fire, 
the  empty  bottle  just  within  reach  sufficiently  pro- 
claiming his  condition.  Close  against  the  farther 
side  of  the  cave,  partially  sheltered  behind  a  lot  of 
rubbish,  lay  Softy's  dog,  vigilant  and  motionless. 

At  this  moment  Hass  lifted  his  head  and  stared 
stupidly  around  the  cave.  "The  fool  have  gone  — 
damn  'im,"  he  muttered. 

Hass's  life  within  the  past  few  months  could  but 
have  left  its  inevitable  impress;  and  the  bloated, 
upturned  face  with  its  evil  look,  its  sensual,  cruel 
mouth,  filled  the  girl  with  terror. 

At  this  moment  Hass's  eyes  fell  upon  the  dog. 
"Kem  yere!"  he  commanded,  savagely.  But  the  poor 
beast  only  whimpered,  pitifully.  "Kem  yere  —  I 
say  —  "  Hass  shouted ;  and  the  dog,  a  world  of  sup- 
plication in  his  soft  eyes,  obeyed. 

"An  if  Softy,  he  don't  get  that  air  business  done 
tonight,"  he  snarled,  bestowing  a  brutal  kick  upon 
the  helpless  animal,  "I'll  —  " 

And  Lindy,  sickened  by  the  repulsive  scene,  clung 


162  LINDY  LOYD 

to  the  rock  in  sheer  loathing  of  her  self-appointed 
task.  "Is  there  no  other  way?"  she  breathed. 

But  Lindy  was  by  nature  fearless,  and  presently, 
having  grasped  her  courage  anew,  she  peered  again 
within  the  cave. 

"Hass?"  she  faintly  articulated. 

White,  bathed  in  the  sweat  of  fear,  Hass  started 
and  gazed  apprehensively  around.  "War  't  —  war 
't  a  ha'nt?"  he  breathed. 

"Hass?"  again  the  soft  voice,  "It's  me  —  Lindy! 
come  outside." 

Not  yet  convinced  of  the  reality  of  the  summons, 
Hass  obeyed;  and  there  in  the  brilliant  moonlight, 
her  slender,  girlish  figure  bewitching  in  its  boyish 
garb,  stood  Lindy. 

"Lindy  —  Lindy !"  cried  Hass,  enraptured  by  the 
beauty  of  the  girl,  the  unexpectedness  of  the  en- 
counter. 

But  Lindy,  dominated  by  one  purpose,  did  not 
linger.  Going  straightway  to  him  she  placed  her 
hand  upon  his  breast  in  unconscious  appeal  and 
began:  "I  have  come  down  here  alone,  to  see  you, 
Hass." 

"What  air  you-uns  a-doin  down  yere,  Lindy  — 
at  night  —  this  a-ways?"  demanded  Hass,  awakening 
to  the  situation.  "What's  hit?" 

"Listen!"  replied  the  girl,  her  direct  gaze  seeking 
his,  "I  heard  you  and  Softy,  this  afternoon,  Hass. 
I  heard  you  tell  him  to  —  to  kill  Daddy  —  to- 


LINDY  LOYD  163 

night  —  -  "  and  her  eyes  searched  his.  Steadying 
herself,  Lindy  went  on  "I  heard  you  say  you  were 
going  to  get  Hugh  —  too  —  "  and  the  girl  went 
white. 

"Well  —  "  demanded  Hass  brutally. 

"Don't !" 

"Why  not?"  he  persisted. 

"Because  I  ask  you." 

"Damn !" 

"Because,"  and  the  steadfast  eyes  gazed  straight 
into  his,  "low-down  as  you  are,  bad  as  you  have  be- 
come, you  have  not  yet  committed  murder." 

"Lindy  —  will  you-uns  be  jined  to  me?"  Hass  de- 
manded. 

"No,  Hass,"  firmly. 

"Lindy,  air  you-uns  a-callatin  to  be  jined  to  that 
city  feller?" 

"Yes"  —  was  the  fearless  reply. 

"Well  —  then  —  Lindy,  you-uns  must  be  clear 
plum'  crazy !"  Hass  exploded.  "Yuh  kem  way  down 
the  mountain  all  alone  an  stand  right  yere  before  me 
in  the  moonshine  —  the  purtiest  thing  God  A'mighty 
ever  made  —  then  ask  me  to  give  yuh  up  to  another 
man !  Me!  —  yuh  ask  me!  —  Why  Lindy  — leetle 
Lindy,"  he  pleaded,  "I've  loved  yuh  all  my  life !  — 
there  never  wuz  no  time  whenst  I  ain't  loved  yuh, 
Lindy !  —  an  yuh  ask  me  to  give  yuh  up  to  'im  —  to 
that  damn  city  feller !  curse  'im  —  curse  *im!  —  I 
say,"  Hass  vociferated,  wildly. 


164  LINDY  LOYD 

But  Lindy,  fearless  of  his  ravings,  dauntlessly 
persisted :  "Don't  do  it  —  Hass  —  don't  do  it !" 

As  has  been  stated,  Hass  was  a  man  of  strong 
passions,  rough,  reckless,  unyielding  in  purpose  and 
not  especially  scrupulous  as  to  the  means  employed 
if  the  purpose  were  finally  attained.  The  one  puri- 
fying, softening  influence  in  his  life  had  been  Lindy 
—  Lindy,  who  shone  like  a  star  in  his  firmament ; 
and  standing  before  the  intrepid  girl,  so  alluring  in 
her  beauty,  her  splendid  courage,  her  fearless 
avowal  of  love  for  another  man,  the  flame  of  Mass's 
passion  but  increased  until  the  thought  of  life  with- 
out Lindy  became  unbearable. 

Convinced  at  last  of  the  utter  impossibility  of 
securing  Lindy  by  fair  means,  Hass  decided  to  re- 
sort to  unfair ;  —  and  by  forcing  the  situation  to 
compel  the  girl's  acceptance  of  himself. 

"An  yuh  won't  be  jined  to  me,  Lindy?" 

"No,  Hass." 

"Yuh  won't?" 

"No,"  patiently. 

Hass  stood  regarding  her. 

"An  you-uns  air  a-spectin  me  to  let  the  city  feller 
go,  Lindy?" 

"Yes,  Hass." 

"An  if  I  do  —  you-uns  air  a-spectin  to  be  jined 
to  'im?" 

"Yes,  Hass,"  the  girl  reiterated,  fearlessly,  her 
eyes  upon  his. 


LINDY  LOYD  165 

"Well  —  then  —  I  won't !  —  I  won't  let  'im  go !" 
Hass  shouted.  "There  ain't  nobody  on  God's  earth 
ez  would  give  yuh  up  to  another  man,  Lindy  —  no- 
body! Now  listen  to  me!"  and  his  hand  fell  heavy 
upon  the  shoulder  of  the  dauntless  girl,  "there  is  just 
one  way  out  of  it  —  just  —  one  —  way!"  he  reiter- 
ated with  cruel  emphasis,  his  eyes  burning  into  hers, 
"be  jined  to  me  tomorrow!  —  tomorrow  —  Lindy! 
An  I  will  call  Softy  off  —  an  I  will  let  the  city  feller 

go." 

Involuntarily,  a  tremor  of  disgust  passed  over  the 
girl  and  she  shrank  from  him. 

Hass  noted  her  aversion.  "An  if  so  you-uns 
won't  be  jined  to  me,  Lindy,"  he  went  on,  "why  — 
I'll  know  just  what  to  do  'bout  yer  Daddy  —  an 
bout  that  other'n,  too,"  —  he  added  with  grim  sig- 
nificance. "Damn  'im  —  damn  'im !  I  say,"  shouted 
Hass,  his  face  ablaze  with  hate. 

White,  stricken  to  stone,  all  the  pretty  color  gone 
from  her  cheeks,  the  light  from  her  eyes,  Lindy  gazed 
dully  at  Hass.  What  was  it  Hass  had  said?  marry 
him  —  marry  Hass?  Why  she  could  not  —  she  was 
to  marry  Hugh !  Reaching  blindly  out  for  support 
Lindy  came  in  contact  with  the  rock  and  clung, 
trembling,  to  it  as  she  strove  to  control  her  failing 
senses,  her  shaking  body.  Oh  —  where  was  Hugh? 
—  why  was  he  not  here  to  help  her  in  her  extremity  ? 
And  Daddy  —  Ah !  —  With  a  shuddering  breath  the 
girl  awoke  to  the  terrible  situation. 


166  LINDY  LOYD 

To  marry  Hass  —  to  marry  Hass!  Ah  —  she 
could  not !  Her  entire  being  revolted  at  the  thought. 
Dear  God  —  I  cannot  marry  him  —  /  cannot!  —  she 
pleaded.  But  perhaps  Hass  might  relent.  One 
glance  at  that  brutal  face  so  greedily  thrust  for- 
ward awaiting  her  decision,  speedily  convinced  the 
girl  of  the  utter  futility  of  that  hope. 

But  to  marry  Hass !  And  Hugh  —  then  —  ah, 
what  of  him  —  and  of  their  love?  And  her  soul 
cried  out  in  agony. 

Once  more  Lindy  lifted  her  eyes  in  wordless  en- 
treaty, scanning  that  cruel  face  for  a  gleam  of 
relenting. 

But  there  was  none.  Having  the  girl  at  last  in 
his  power,  Hass  was  adamant.  There  was  no  appeal. 

Must  she  accept  his  hateful  proposition?  Ah, 
must  she?  If  she  agreed  to  marry  Hass,  nothing 
short  of  death  would  release  her  from  that  promise. 
Once  her  word  was  given,  it  would  be  kept ;  and 
Hass,  aware  of  the  absolute  sincerity  of  the  girl,  was 
waiting,  longing,  for  that  assurance.  And  oh  — 
there  was  no  time  to  waste.  She  must  yield.  Softy 
had  been  gone  a  long  while  now  —  already  he  might 
be  on  his  way  up  the  mountain  —  and  Daddy  —  oh 
—  oh  —  And  bewildered,  terrified,  overcome  by  the 
lack  of  time,  by  her  utter  impotence  in  regard  to  any 
help  whatsoever,  Lindy  consented  to  the  sacrifice. 

"And  if  I  don't  marry  you  tomorrow,  Hass,  you'll 


LINDY  LOYD  167 

— you'll  —  "  questioned  the  girl  in  horrified  accents, 
her  eyes  glued  to  his. 

"I  will  do  ez  I  said,  Lindy  —  so  help  me  God!" 
Hass  affirmed,  solemnly;  his  diabolical  expression 
sufficiently  indicating  the  fixity  of  his  resolve. 

"And  if  I  do  marry  you,  tomorrow  —  you  will  let 
Daddy  and  Hugh  go?" 

"I  will,  Lindy  —  " 

"For  always,  Hass?" 

"For  always,  Lindy." 

Steadily  those  truthful  eyes  searched  the  wicked, 
pitiless  face.  Then  —  "I  will  marry  you  tomorrow, 
Hass,"  she  said. 

Controlling  her  emotion,  Lindy  stood  in  scornful, 
stony  silence  while  Hass  appointed  the  place  and  the 
hour  for  the  sacrifice,  which,  for  the  sake  of  privacy, 
he  decided  should  be  a  village  farther  down  the  river 
and  at  as  early  an  hour  as  was  possible. 

Having  further  protected  himself  by  securing  the 
girl's  promise  of  certain,  absolute  secrecy  in  regard 
to  the  marriage  and  the  attendant  circumstances 
thereof  until  such  time  as  he  should  deem  it  ad- 
visable to  reveal  it  —  Hass  departed,  exultant. 


CHAPTER    XXV 

WEARILY,   mechanically,    stupefied   by   the 
calamity  that  had  overtaken  her  —  a  ca- 
lamity she  must  not  share  —  Lindy  turned 
her  steps  homeward.     How  she  climbed  the  trail  the 
girl  never  knew ;  but  reaching  her  home  Lindy  sought 
the  solitude  of  her  own  room  and  behind  its  closed 
door  endeavored  to  face  and  to  accept  the  terrible 
crisis  so  unexpectedly  and  so  hatefully  forced  upon 
her. 

But  the  room  cried  aloud  of  Hugh.  He  was  every- 
where —  everywhere.  Back  of  the  door  stood  an 
alpen-stock  cut  and  fashioned  by  his  dear  hands, 
reminiscence  of  a  never-to-be-forgotten  climb.  On 
the  door  hung  a  cap  —  once  his  property.  From 
one  corner  of  the  room  was  suspended  a  broken 
branch  a  tiny  bird's-nest  attached  thereto;  from 
another,  trailed  the  red  berries  of  the  eglantine  and 
the  pale  mistletoe;  while  scattered  here  and  there 
were  trophies  of  many  a  mountain-ramble  —  bits 
and  spoils  of  the  forest  —  of  no  intrinsic  value 
whatsoever,  but  rich  in  priceless  association  to 
Lindy. 

"Oh,  Hugh  —  how  can  I  —  how  can  I  —  "  moaned 
the  girl,  her  eyes  lingering  upon  each  dear  token. 

168 


LINDY   LOYD  169 

Upon  a  small  table  by  the  bedside  were  the  dearer 
things :  Hugh's  picture ;  the  books  he  had  given  her ; 
the  tiny  prayer-book  —  once  her  mother's ;  —  all  — 
all  linked  indissolubly  with  the  dear  past  —  asso- 
ciated in  some  manner  with  Hugh ;  —  with  Hugh,  her 
lover,  whom  she  was  required  to  put  out  of  her  life, 
forever;  of  whom,  after  tomorrow,  it  would  be  a  sin, 
even  to  think. 

"And  to  marry  Hass !  —  Hass  Hicks!"  she  burst 
forth  with  loathing,  a  sudden  realization  of  her  un- 
happy fate  sweeping  over  her.  And  Lindy  sank  upon 
her  knees  in  wild-eyed  misery. 

"Dear  God  —  I  cannot !  —  I  cannot  give  up 
Hugh  —  7  cannot!"  she  pleaded,  her  eyes  upon  the 
pictured  face  of  her  lover.  "Mother  —  oh,  my 
mother  —  can  you  hear  your  little  girl  tonight  ?  I 
need  you  so  —  oh  —  7  need  you  so  —  and  there  is 
nobody  —  nobody!.  Mother  —  oh  —  my  own 
mother  —  "  sobbed  the  girl,  her  wet  cheek  upon  the 
prayer-book,  sole  reminder  of  the  mother  held  so 
dear. 

Presently  outraged  nature  claimed  her  own  and 
Lindy  fell  asleep,  leaning  against  the  little  white  bed. 

Sometime  in  the  gray  hours  of  the  very  early 
morning  Lindy  awakened  from  her  unquiet  slumber 
and  knew  that  her  father  had  come  safely  down  the 
mountain  and  that  the  new  day  —  the  dreaded  new 
day  —  was  almost  upon  her. 

And  there  was  yet  a  duty  to  perform  —  an  ending 


170  LINDY   LOYD 

of  the  old  sweet  life  —  before  entering  upon  the 
new;  and  Lindy  resolutely  set  herself  to  perform  it. 

Gathering  together  the  books,  Lindy  stripped  the 
room  of  every  small  memento,  every  cherished  re- 
membrance of  the  happy  past.  Softly,  reverently, 
as  if  for  the  dead,  she  went  about  her  preparations, 
making  everything  into  a  bundle. 

When  all  was  finished,  the  girl  gazed  sadly  around 
her  dismantled  room.  "One  thing  more  —  the  last," 
she  whispered ;  —  and  taking  Hugh's  picture  into 
her  hands  Lindy  gazed  long  and  earnestly  upon  it. 
"Good-bye  —  my  lover,  Hugh  —  good-bye  —  "  she 
breathed,  placing  it  softly  against  her  trembling 
lips.  Laying  the  picture  with  the  rest,  Lindy  gath- 
ered the  bundle  within  her  arms  and  stole  softly  from 
the  cabin. 


CHAPTER 

UPON  leaving  the  still,  Softy  had  gone  directly 
to    his    cabin,    where,    desperate,    bitter,    he 
brooded  over  his  wrongs  and  endeavored  to 
nerve  himself  to  the  commission  of  the  dastardly, 
cold-blooded  deed  with  which  he  had  been  charged. 

It  was  miserable  within  the  cabin ;  its  bareness,  its 
utter  cheerlessness  but  emphasized  by  the  flickering 
gleam  of  the  fire  upon  the  hearth  —  the  only  light 
afforded.  About  it,  as  about  the  one  suggestion  of 
comfort  within  reach,  the  entire  family  were 
gathered. 

Softy,  his1  elbows  upon  his  knees,  occupied  one 
corner  of  the  fireplace.  Surly,  sodden  with  drink, 
he  sat  glowering  at  the  embers.  Near  him  sat  his 
wife,  slatternly,  gaunt,  hopeless-looking,  her  ill- 
nourished  baby  pressed  to  her  empty  breast.  Three 
or  four  unkempt,  sickly  children  in  various  stages 
of  poverty  stricken  undress,  their  young  faces 
already  stamped  with  the  sadness,  the  listlessness  of 
expression  common  to  the  mountaineer,  were  huddled 
in  the  opposite  corner  of  the  hearth  eagerly  watch- 
ing the  preparations  for  the  evening  meal  which  was 
presided  over  by  the  eldest  girl. 

171 


172  LINDY   LOYD 

Presently,  scattering  the  heap  of  hot  ashes,  the 
girl  withdrew  an  ash  cake  from  the  center  where  it 
had  lain  buried.  Deftly  removing  the  layers  of 
cabbage  leaves  enfolding  it  —  corn  husks,  thin  strips 
of  board  or  any  suitable  protection  would  answer 
the  purpose  equally  well  —  she  placed  the  cake  upon 
a  broken  table  propped  against  the  wall.  Lifting 
the  coffee  from  the  embers  —  for  coffee  of  some  sort 
is  a  staple  article  of  food  with  the  mountaineer  — 
she  pronounced  the  meal  ready  and  the  hungry  fam- 
ily gathered  about  it. 

Hass,  in  the  meantime,  inflated  with  the  success 
of  his  interview  with  Lindy,  proceeded  up  the  moun- 
tain in  search  of  his  tool.  Reaching  the  little  cabin 
he  peered  within  the  narrow  window  and  with  a  low 
whistle  summoned  Softy  outside. 

"Curse  'im!"  muttered  Softy,  lingering  at  the 
table. 

Again  the  whistle  —  more  imperative.  Realizing 
that  he  had  no  choice  but  to  obey,  Softy  shuffled 
outside  and  stood  before  his  tormentor. 

Hass  had  been  intolerable  of  late,  and  Softy, 
loathing  his  toils,  filled  with  hate  and  fear  of  his 
tyrant,  yet  lacked  sufficient  strength  of  character  to 
break  away  from  Hass's  domination.  But  "the  worm 
will  turn"  and  in  Softy's  opinion,  Hass  had  far  ex- 
ceeded his  privileges.  Having  come  to  this  decision, 
Softy  only  awaited  a  suitable  opportunity  to  strike. 

"An  yuh  ain't  gone  up  the  trail  —  yet  ?"  gibed 


LINDY   LOYD  173 

Hass,  regarding  the  poor  wretch,  contemptuously. 
Unwilling  to  release  his  hold  upon  his  miserable  vic- 
tim, he  added:  "Hit  will  be  a  hangin'  job  yuh 
knows,  Softy." 

Softy  winced. 

"Wonder  how  't'll  feel,  Softy,  to  step  out  upon 
nuthin  't  all  —  just  nuthin  't  all?"  he  continued, 
cruelly ;  and  with  a  significant  gesture,  Hass  laid  his 
fingers  across  his  throat. 

"Damn  yuh  — "  muttered  the  shrinking  man. 
And  Hass  laughed,  brutally. 

"Well  —  now  —  then  —  Softy,  yuh  ain't  a-goin ! 
—  yuh  ain't  a-goin  up  the  mountain  tonight  —  an 
yuh're  to  keep  yer  hands  off  of  Mitry  Loyd !"  com- 
manded Hass,  with  an  entire  change  of  manner. 

Softy's  jaw  fell  and  he  stared,  dumbly. 

"Don't  yer  savvy  —  damn  yuh?"  Hass  shouted, 
fiercely,  advancing  upon  the  bewildered  Softy,  "Yuh 
ain't  a-goin  up  the  mountain  —  an  yuh're  to  keep 
off!  — got  'tr 

"Yep  —  I  got  't,"  muttered  Softy,  lifting  his  arm 
to  ward  off  the  expected  blow. 

"What  a  mean  —  low-down  —  no  'count  cuss  yuh 
be,  Softy,  anyways ;  hit  air  all  I  can  do  to  keep  my 
hands  off  yuh;"  Hass  broke  forth,  contemptuously, 
eyeing  the  poor  wreck  before  him. 

Softy  watched  him,  warily. 

"Aw  —  kem  along  —  Softy !  —  kem  on  over  to 
Leary's  an  get  some  spunk  into  yer  mis'ble  carcass," 


174  LINDY  LOYD 

cried  Hass,  turning  away.  "Kem  on,  Softy  —  kem 
on  —  "  he  reiterated,  jocularly,  "we-uns'll  make  a 
night  of  't." 

And  Softy,  scarcely  yet  realizing  his  release  from 
the  contemplated  crime  and  utterly  distrustful  of 
Hass's  sudden  change  of  attitude,  followed  him  to  a 
well  known  drinking-place,  where,  with  kindred 
spirits,  they  immediately  proceeded  to  dice  and 
carouse. 

The  revelry  increased  as  the  night  wore  away. 
Hass  drank  frequently  —  the  only  apparent  effect 
being  an  increasing  insolence  and  arbitrariness  which 
finally  became  insufferable  and  the  evening's  festivi- 
ties terminated  in  a  drunken  row  —  a  free,  hand-to- 
hand  fight.  Fortunately,  however,  the  arrival  of  the 
officers  of  the  law  put  an  end  to  the  disgraceful 
scene.  There  were  a  number  of  arrests  —  Softy 
Sykes  among  the  rest.  Hass,  however,  again 
escaped  and  evading  pursuit,  succeeded  in  reaching 
his  home. 


CHAPTER     XXVII 

LEAVING  the  cabin,  Lindy  entered  the  trail 
leading  directly  to  the  river. 

There  had  been  a  heavy  frost  during  the 
night  and  the  earth  lay  cold  and  white.  Below,  in 
the  distance,  stretched  the  fields,  their  emptiness 
covered  with  a  filmy,  web-like  robe  soon  to  be  trans- 
formed into  a  silvery,  glittering  sheen.  Hanging 
over  the  mountains  were  feathery  banks  of  mist, 
blown  about  by  the  breeze.  Here  and  there,  peeping 
in  between,  could  be  seen  the  tops  of  the  rock-ribbed 
peaks,  black  and  forbidding.  Above,  lay  the  clouds, 
light  and  fleecy.  Far  up  the  zenith,  delicate  streamers 
of  palest  yellow  and  red  were  flying,  indicating  the 
path  of  the  on-coming  sun;  while  on  the  opposite 
horizon,  in  the  heart  of  a  deep  gorge,  where  the  shad- 
ows lay  heavy  and  black,  a  slender  shaft  of  red  was 
flung. 

The  trees  were  bare  of  foliage,  now,  their  dead 
leaves  rustling  underfoot.  Many  of  the  tiny  wood- 
dwellers  had  already  gone  into  retreat  for  the  winter 
and  the  forest  appeared  empty  of  life.  Occasionally, 
however,  a  "cotton-tail,"  or  a  belated  weasel,  hurry- 
ing home  from  some  marauding  expedition,  would 

175 


176  LINDY  LOYD 

flash  into  sight.  Once,  a  "possum"  trotted  leisurely 
across  her  path. 

But  Lindy  was  deaf  to  the  voice  of  the  woods. 
Passing  rapidly  down  the  mountain  she  came  out 
into  the  open  some  distance  above  Dark  Hollow  and 
proceeded  directly  to  the  river,  where  she  placed  her 
bundle  upon  the  ground,  weighting  it  with  stones. 
Entering  a  skiff,  Lindy  then  rowed  out  into  the  deep 
water  and  dropped  her  bundle  softly  overboard. 

With  her  face  set  resolutely  down  the  river  the 
girl  floated  on  with  the  current.  On  —  on  —  and 
still  on :  —  Dark  Hollow,  her  own  mountains,  fa- 
miliar landmarks  —  all  —  fading  in  the  distance ;  — 
Hugh,  dear  associations,  her  happy  past  —  Daddy, 
too  —  (for  was  she  not  hedged  about,  pledged  to  a 
horrible  secrecy,  even  from  Daddy)  —  all  —  all 
were  left  behind.  Before  her  stretched  the  empty, 
hopeless,  utterly  abhorrent  future.  But  Lindy  had 
no  thought  of  turning  back.  Her  word  was  given  — 
she  would  keep  it. 

After  a  time,  rounding  a  bend  in  the  river,  her 
destination  came  into  view.  Rowing  ashore,  Lindy 
secured  her  boat  at  the  edge  of  a  small  wood  and 
walked  on  to  the  village. 

"You-uns  be  yere,  Lindy,"  said  a  voice  at  her 
elbow;  and  Hass  stepped  up  beside  her. 

"Yes  — I'm  here." 

Evidently,  there  was  to  be  no  difficulty  regarding 
Lindy  Vpart  of  the  contract  and  Hass  stole  a  glance 


LINDY  LOYD  177 

of  admiration  at  the  quiet,  self-controlled  girl.  He 
noted  also  the  entire  absence  of  her  pretty,  bright 
manner,  her  pallor  and  the  heavy  shadows  under 
her  eyes. 

"Pore  leetle  Lindy,"  he  meditated,  "hates  me  like 
pizen  —  but  a-goin  to  keep  her  promise  if  't  kills 
her  —  the  plucky  leetle  devil !  Well  —  I'll  make  't 
up  to  her ;  —  I'll  stop  a-drinkin  an  a-carryin-on ;  — 
I  can  make  her  happy  —  an  I  will  —  /  will!"  deter- 
mined Hass,  constrained  by  the  girl's  force  of  char- 
acter. 

"We-uns'll  go  to  the  Methody  parson,  Lindy,"  an- 
nounced Hass,  as  they  entered  the  village. 

"I  will  be  married  in  my  mother's  church,  Hass," 
quietly  replied  Lindy." 

"Well  —  hit  makes  no  difference,  so  we  be  jined," 
agreed  Hass ;  and  presently  they  followed  the  rec- 
tor —  white-haired  and  kindly  —  into  the  church 
and  were  married. 

Hass,  awkward  and  constrained,  left  the  church 
at  once.  Lindy,  however,  frightened,  defenceless, 
overwhelmed  by  the  finality  of  the  step  just  taken, 
lingered  a  moment  within  the  sacred  walls,  unable, 
immediately,  to  meet  the  situation  awaiting  her  out- 
side —  and  turning,  the  rector  met  the  anguished, 
panic-stricken  eyes  of  the  girl. 

"Isn't  it  all  right?"  he  inquired. 

"Oh,  no  —  no!"  she  burst  forth. 

"Tell  me  —  my  child  —  " 


178  LINDY  LOYD 

"But  I  cannot  tell  you  —  " 

"Why  can  you  not  tell  me?" 

"I  cannot  —  oh,  I  cannot,"  she  reiterated,  with 
trembling  lips. 

"Is  there  a  burden  to  carry?"  questioned  the 
rector,  gently. 

"Ah  —  dear  God !  yes  —  yes  —  "  came  the  an- 
guished reply. 

"Is  it  yours?" 

"Oh  — no!" 

"Look  at  me  —  my  child." 

Lindy  lifted  her  clear,  unfaltering  eyes  to  his. 

And  the  old  rector,  wise,  experienced  in  dealing 
with  matters  of  the  spirit,  gazed  directly  into  the 
white,  clean  soul  of  the  girl  and  was  satisfied. 

Softly  he  laid  his  trembling  hand  upon  her  bowed 
head  and  slowly,  impressively,  pronounced  the  bless- 
ing of  the  church:  "The  Lord  bless  thee  and  keep 
thee.  The  Lord  make  His  face  to  shine  upon  thee 
and  be  gracious  unto  thee.  The  Lord  lift  up  His 
countenance  upon  thee  and  give  —  thee  —  peace, 
both  now  and  evermore.  Amen!" 

Comforted,  Lindy  arose  and  left  the  church. 

Hass  was  disposed  to  be  jubilant,  talkative.  Why 
not?  Had  he  not  at  last  attained  his  heart's  desire? 
Was  not  the  beautiful  girl  at  his  side  now  his  wife? 
His  wife!  Hass  wanted  to  shout  it  aloud.  And 
what  if  the  means  employed  were  somewhat  doubtful, 
he  argued,  they  had  proved  to  be  entirely  adequate. 


LINDY  LOYD  179 

And  what  if  Lindy  did  hold  him  in  aversion?  —  in 
time  he  would  win  her  love.  In  any  case,  she  was  his 
wife  —  his  wife!  Nothing  could  undo  that  great 
fact  —  nothing!  And  secure  in  that  accomplish- 
ment, Hass  stepped  along  blithely. 

Lindy,  however,  wrapped  in  a  quiet  dignity  of 
manner,  calmly  held  Hass  aloof  and  would  have  none 
of  his  advances. 

Presently  they  reached  the  woods.  Untying  her 
boat,  Lindy  prepared  to  embark. 

"Lindy  —  leetle  Lindy  —  "  Hass  cried,  suddenly. 

Startled,  Lindy  lifted  her  weary  eyes  to  his.  "What 
is  it,  Hass?"  she  gently  inquired. 

"Lindy,"  he  burst  forth,  "you-uns  air  so  white  — 
so  —  so  tired  an  still  —  like  —  just  like  a  leetle  hurt 
bird  —  a  leetle  hurt  bird,  Lindy,"  he  reiterated,  his 
eyes  fixed  miserably  upon  her,  "an  I  —  I  didn't  cal- 
late  to  hurt  yuh  none  —  Lindy." 

Lindy  stood,  speechless. 

"Lindy,"  Hass  went  on,  passionately,  "I  air 
a-callatin  to  make  you-uns  happy  —  to  take  keer  of 
yuh !  —  I  air  a-goin  to  stop  a-drinkin,  an  a-carryin- 
on  —  you-uns  can  do  anything  yuh  wanter  with  me, 
Lindy  —  anything  't  all !  —  Lindy  —  oh,  Lindy  —  " 

But  Lindy,  her  heart  cold  and  dead  within  her, 
could  only  gaze  sorrowfully  into  Hass's  face. 

"Lindy,"  he  pleaded,  "I  wisht  —  mebbe  —  mought 
I  kiss  you-uns  —  just  onct?  —  I  —  I  mean  just  what 
I  have  said." 


180  LINDY  LOYD 

"Oh  —  must  I  —  Hass?"  gasped  the  girl,  her 
eyes  wide  with  fright  and  abhorrence. 

As  has  been  stated,  in  Lindy's  interviews  with 
Hass  —  stormy  as  those  interviews  commonly  proved 
to  be  —  she  had  been  able,  heretofore,  to  control  the 
situation;  Hass,  to  do  him  justice,  rendering  the 
girl  the  respect  due  her.  Now,  however,  the  situa- 
tion was  changed.  Hass  had  not,  now,  to  ask.  It 
was  his  to  demand  —  to  take,  even,  should  he  so 
choose;  and  Lindy,  having  realized  the  lengths  of 
evil  to  which  Hass  could  go,  was  afraid  —  oh  —  so 
horribly  afraid.  White,  cold  with  apprehension,  her 
frightened  pulses  leaping,  the  girl  awaited  the  caress 
Hass  could  rightfully  claim. 

Hass  stood,  bitterly  regarding  her.  He  had  read 
the  fear  and  detestation  in  her  eyes  and  his  heart 
was  filled  with  despair.  So  it  was  all  of  no  avail. 
Lindy's  abhorrence  was  too  deep  for  any  plea  of 
his.  Why  —  oh,  why,  could  he  not  move  her  —  ap- 
peal to  her?  How  she  hated  him  —  how  she  feared 
him,  he  meditated,  gazing  into  the  wide,  loathful 
eyes  of  the  girl. 

Very  well  —  then  —  his  brute  nature  in  the  ascen- 
dency —  he  could  do  no  more.  If  she  would  not  be 
won,  if  she  was  determined  to  have  none  of  him  — 
why  —  he  could  take  what  she  refused  to  give.  She 
was  his  wife  —  his  wife.  He  would  be  only  within  his 
rights.  And,  desperate,  raging,  Hass  seized  the  girl 
and  crushed  her  to  him. 


LINDY   LOYD  181 

Lindy  closed  her  eyes.  Like  some  fair,  white 
lily  —  appealing  in  her  very  helplessness,  her  non- 
resistance  —  she  lay  within  his  arms. 

For  a  second  Hass  stood  silent,  his  eyes  upon  that 
sweet  form.  Yes  —  it  was  Lindy  —  and  she  was  his, 
now.  His  by  the  laws  of  God  and  man.  He  could 
crush  her  —  could  break  her  —  and  none  could  say 
him  nay.  But  that  was  not  what  Hass  wanted  — 
that  pathetic,  hopeless  little  figure.  Ah,  no !  —  Hass 
wanted  Lindy !  —  Lindy  herself!  —  that  dear  spirit 
now  shrinking  in  fear  and  aversion  behind  the  sweep- 
ing lashes.  Ah,  that!  —  would  that  ever  be  his? 
And  Hass  gazed  despairingly  upon  the  girl.  Ah  — 
why  could  he  not  win  her?  —  why  —  oh,  why? 

"An  you-uns  won't  kiss  me,  Lindy  —  leetle 
Lindy?"  he  cried  with  exceeding  bitterness. 

Lindy,  her  pulses  throbbing  wildly,  remained  mute 
within  his  arms.  . 

"I  won't  have  a  stun  immige,  Lindy,"  he  shouted, 
suddenly  releasing  her.  "Damn  —  damn  —  damn  — " 
and  Hass  flung  off  through  the  woods. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII 

THERE'S  likely  to  be  another  big  frost  to- 
night," remarked  Mitry,  entering  the  kitchen. 
"Reckon  hit's  plum'  time  for  another  — 
heard  the  wild  geese  a-honkin'  again  this  mornin'  — 
for  one  thing,"  Joan  replied. 

"Yep  —  beats  all  how  them  wild  critters  do  hit 't," 
agreed  Mitry.  "Hit  certainly  do  smell  good  in  yere, 
Joan,"  Mitry  went  on,  sniffing  the  savory  odors  from 
the  hearth ;  and  having  hung  his  cap  upon  the  back 
of  the  door  —  coat  likewise  —  he  filled  his  pipe  and 
settled  himself  comfortably  in  the  corner  of  the  fire- 
place to  await  the  summons  to  supper. 

The  kitchen  with  its  appetizing  odors,  the  ruddy 
glow  from  the  hearth  —  scattering  the  shadows  from 
the  blackened  rafters  overhead  —  presented  a  pic- 
ture of  homely  comfort.  At  intervals,  a  brilliant  flare 
would  set  strange  figures  dancing  upon  the  cabin- 
walls.  Now  here,  now  there,  hither  and  yon  they 
darted,  their  elfin  touches  flickering  among  the  pol- 
ished brasses  in  gleams  of  gold. 

In  front  of  the  hearth,  luxuriating  in  the  prospec- 
tive good  cheer,  lay  Peter,  endeavoring  by  every 
means  in  his  cat  power  to  convey  his  extreme  appre- 

182 


LINDY  LOYD  183 

ciation  of  the  situation  —  his  expectation  of  joint 
participation.  Presently  the  family  gathered  about 
the  table. 

"Well  — "  announced  Mitry,  "Hass  an  Softy, 
they's  both  back  in  the  jail-house!" 

"What's  hit  —  Lindy?  air  you-uns  a-chokin?" 
cried  Joan,  rising  to  aid  the  girl. 

"It's  nothing  —  nothing  —  Aunt  Joan,"  gasped 
Lindy,  hysterically.  All  day  long  she  had  gone 
about  her  home,  apprehensive  of  the  sometime  arrival 
of  Hass  and  of  his  lawful  claim  upon  her;  and  the 
sudden  relief  afforded  by  Mitry's  words  was  almost 
more  than  she  could  endure. 

Mitry  said  nothing,  but  his  eyes  dwelt  upon  her, 
questioningly. 

"Who  wuz  't  a-tellin  yuh,  Mitry?"  inquired  Joan, 
resuming  the  subject  of  conversation. 

"Hit  war  Si  Etter.  Said  there  wuz  the  biggest 
kind  of  a  time  over  to  Leary's  last  night  —  a-drinkin 
an  a-hollerin;  purty  soon  they-alls  got  into  a  big 
fight  —  sorta  free  for  all,  like." 

"Well  —  I  —  never !"  interpolated  Joan. 

"An  Si,  he  said,"  Mitry  went  on,  "that  the  law, 
hit  have  had  its  eye  on  that  place  of  Leary's  for 
some  time;  an  last  night  the  officers  just  lit  right 
onto  the  hull  caboodle  of  'em.  Got  'em,  too  —  ceptin 
Hass  —  an  he  war  cotched  this  mornin,  sometime." 

"Well  —  that  Hass  Hicks  —  he  certainly  have 
been  a-goin  't  —  yere  lately,"  gibed  Joan.  "Where'd 
they  find  'im?" 


184  LINDY  LOYD 

"Clear  down  the  river  —  somewheres." 

Lindy  lifted  startled  eyes. 

"I  clar  for  't,  Lindy  —  yuh  air  that  white  —  " 
Joan  cried,  "Reckon  I'd  better  fix  yuh  up  some 
bone-set." 

"Very  well,"  agreed  the  girl. 

"Softy,  he  hates  Hass  wusser'n  a  snake,"  Mitry 
went  on,  "an  whenst  them  officers  axed  did  they-alls 
know  anything  'bout  Hass  Hicks,  Softy,  he  up  an 
told  'em  that  Hass'd  been  there  too  —  right  along 
with  the  rest  of  'em  —  " 

"Huh!"  Joan  ejaculated. 

"An  Softy  Sykes,  he'd  better  take  good  keer  of 
that  hide  of  his'n  whenst  Hass  gets  out  the  jail- 
house,"  Mitry  concluded,  as  they  rose  from  the 
table. 

"That's  so!"  Joan  agreed,  heartily. 

"What  have  made  you-uns  so  still-like  —  Cita? 
What's  hit?"  demanded  Mitry,  drawing  the  girl  to 
him. 

Lindy  placed  her  arms  about  his  neck,  hiding  her 
face  upon  his  breast.  "Tired  —  Daddy.  I  think  I 
was  never  so  tired  —  never!"  she  replied.  "Daddy, 
are — are  you  certain  that  Hass  is  in  the  jail- 
house?" 

"He's  in  the  jail-house,  Cita  —  an  it's  just  plum' 
where  he  b'longs,"  emphatically. 

"Oh,  yes,  Daddy !"  and  a  tremor  passed  over  the 
girl. 


LINDY  LOYD  185 

Mitry  drew  her  closer;  and  Lindy,  her  whole  soul 
crying  out  for  help,  for  protection,  lingered,  com- 
forted by  the  sense  of  his  dear  arms  about  her.  "Ah 
—  Daddy  —  Daddy  dear,"  she  whispered,  clinging 
to  him.  But  she  did  not  tell  him  of  her  trouble  — 
she  must  not. 

"What's  hit,  Cita?  — tell  Daddy,"  he  urged. 

"I  am  —  I  am  so  tired  —  Daddy  —  so  tired,"  she 
reiterated,  her  face  still  hidden. 

"Well  —  well  —  get  to  bed,  Cita,  get  to  bed," 
he  soothed ;  and  Lindy  turned  obediently  away.  But 
Mitry's  troubled  eyes  followed  the  girl. 

The  experiences  of  the  past  twenty-four  hours  had 
been  almost  too  much  for  human  endurance  and  ex- 
hausted, body  and  soul,  Lindy  laid  herself  upon  her 
bed,  but  not  to  sleep.  With  wide-open  eyes  she 
lay,  motionless,  her  weary  brain  endlessly  traversing 
the  same  beaten  track  —  the  temporary  relief  af- 
forded by  Mass's  imprisonment  the  single  ray  that 
penetrated  the  darkness. 

The  circumstances  surrounding  the  girl  were 
especially  painful.  In  addition  to  the  conditions  of 
the  situation,  unusual  and  distressing  in  themselves, 
was  the  added  weight  of  secrecy  imposed  by  Hass. 
Dissimulation  was  utterly  foreign  to  Lindy. 
Straightforward,  ingenuous,  her  life  hitherto  had 
been  but  an  open  page ;  and  a  secret  —  something 
that  must  be  hidden  —  was  a  thing  unknown  to  her. 
Particularly  was  this  the  case  in  reference  to  her  re- 


186  LINDY  LOYD 

lations  with  her  father  with  whom  she  had  discussed 
her  joys  and  sorrows  since  babyhood.  "To  deceive 
Daddy  —  why,  I  cannot!"  she  whispered.  "He 
knows,  now,  that  something  is  wrong  —  and  I  dare 
not  look  into  his  dear  eyes.  If  he  finds  out  —  he 
will  shoot  Hass  and  he  must  not  have  that  guilt 
upon  his  soul.  Oh  —  the  whole  thing  is  horrible ! 
I  loathe  it  —  /  loathe  it!"  And  the  girl  writhed  in 
her  misery. 

Then  —  there  was  Hugh  —  and  the  rendezvous 
at  the  old  camp,  planned  for  the  following  day. 
Well  —  she  was  going.  In  spite  of  her  conscientious 
scruples  regarding  her  duty  as  Hass's  wife,  she 
would  not  deny  herself  that  one,  last,  sad  meeting. 
Besides,  it  was  due  Hugh.  It  was  due  them  both  — 
a  decent  ending  to  their  dream  of  love.  But  oh  — 
what  could  she  say  ?  —  How  explain  —  Explain!  — 
she  could  explain  nothing  —  nothing!  Owing  to  that 
most  cruel  limitation  put  upon  her,  she  could  make 
no  defense  whatsoever.  Defense!  —  and  in  connec- 
tion with  Hugh  —  her  lover,  Hugh!  And  so,  over 
and  over  the  same  mental  round  went  the  weary 
brain. 

Was  she  Hass's  wife,  anyway?  —  It  was  ages  and 
ages  ago  —  maybe  it  was  a  dream  —  she  might  be 
fevered  —  or  —  or  —  something.  And  with  a  wild 
hope  the  girl  sat  up  in  bed,  her  hand  stealing  to  her 
bosom.  Ah,  no !  It  was  no  dream  —  no  wild  fancy ! 
They  were  there  —  those  hated  marriage-lines  !  — 


LINDY  LOYD  187 

and  Lindy  dropped  back  upon  her  pillow.  Peace  — 
peace  —  what  was  it  the  kindly  old  rector  had 
said?  —  Peace?  —  Ah,  dear  God  —  when  would  she 
have  peace?  —  when  —  "  and  with  a  long,  shivering 
sigh,  Lindy  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER    XXIX 

HUGH  came  slowly  up  the  trail,  sober  and 
meditative.  Ordinarily,  his  eager  spirit  far 
out-stripped  his  feet ;  but  to-day  —  well,  to- 
day was  different.  The  expected  summons  calling 
him  North  had  arrived  and  Hugh  had  that  to  say 
to  Lindy,  which,  brave  girl  though  she  was,  would 
bring  tears  to  her  eyes,  a  quiver  to  that  sweet  mouth. 
To  hurt  Lindy !  —  well  —  Hugh  was  miserable  at  the 
thought ;  and  although  the  prospective  arrange- 
ment was  far  beyond  his  expectations,  he  found  him- 
self for  the  moment  almost  regretting  his  splendid 
opportunity.  What  a  lot  of  misery  there  is  in  the 
world  anyway,  he  meditated. 

It  had  been  a  never-to-be-forgotten  summer,  all 
too  short  for  the  lovers ;  particularly  these  last  few 
weeks.  The  appointed  interviews  at  the  old  camp,  so 
pitiably  few  in  their  estimation,  had  been  eagerly 
anticipated,  met  and  the  full  toll  of  satisfaction  ex- 
tracted from  each.  Now,  it  had  suddenly  become  but 
a  matter  of  days  —  of  hours,  even.  Ah,  well  —  it 
had  to  be  done.  He  must  tell  Lindy. 

But  where  was  Lindy?  Had  he  arrived  too  early? 
Aroused  from  his  absorption,  Hugh  gazed  expec- 

188 


LINDY  LOYD  189 

tantly  up  the  trail,  but  no  sweet  girl-figure  rewarded 
his  longing  eyes.  Well  —  a  certain  amount  of  pleas- 
ure was  always  to  be  had  from  anticipation  —  she 
would  certainly  be  here  directly ;  and  leaning  against 
the  old  pine,  Hugh  surrendered  himself  again  to  med- 
itation. 

With  brows  drawn  and  lips  compressed,  he  peered 
into  the  future,  planning,  demanding.  He  would  suc- 
ceed —  he  would!  and  his  mouth  settled  into  grim 
lines.  No  chance  should  elude  his  grasp ;  no  possible 
opportunity  be  neglected.  With  eyes  fixed  steadily 
upon  the  accomplishment  of  his  purpose,  he  would 
pursue  an  undeviating  path  to  his  goal,  each  step 
of  his  progress  but  a  shortening  of  the  separa- 
tion from  Lindy  —  from  Lindy.  And  the  fire  of  an 
unalterable  resolve,  an  abiding  purpose,  glowed  in 
Hugh's  eyes. 

Still  Lindy  did  not  appear  and  Hugh's  wonder 
became  concern.  That  she  should  be  late  at  a  ren- 
dezvous was  a  thing  unknown;  that  she  should  not 
come  at  all  was  a  thing  not  to  be  believed.  What 
could  have  happened  —  what  ?  Ah  —  !  as  a  flutter 
of  feminine  garments  appeared  on  the  pathway. 
Hugh  immediately  sent  out  the  whippoorwill's  call. 
But  there  came  no  answering  response. 

Slowly,  as  with  weighted  feet,  Lindy  came  down 
the  trail. 

"Lindy  —  Lindy  —  what  is  it?"  cried  Hugh,  hur- 
rying to  meet  her. 


190  LINDY   LOYD 

The  girl  made  no  reply,  but  came  lingeringly 
along. 

"Why  —  why,  you  are  faint,  Lindy,"  Hugh  ex- 
claimed, beholding  the  pallid  face,  the  nerveless  body ; 
and  he  bent  to  gather  her  within  his  arms. 

But  Lindy  refused  his  proffered  assistance.  "Don't 
—  don't,  Hugh,"  she  said,  moving  aside. 

"But  —  but  you  are  ill !"  he  insisted. 

"Oh,  no  —  Hugh !  don't  touch  me  —  don't !  please 
Hugh,"  pleaded  the  girl,  withdrawing  from  his  em- 
brace. 

And  Hugh  could  only  stare  helplessly. 

Reaching  the  old  pine,  Lindy  laid  her  head  wearily 
against  it,  her  face  downcast. 

Astonished,  perplexed,  Hugh  stood  silent  before 
her.  With  the  eye  of  the  physician  he  noted  the  evi- 
dence of  some  painful  experience  endured :  the  pallor, 
the  heavy  eyes,  the  unnatural  depression,  the  ex- 
haustion. It  was  as  if  some  terrible  blight  had  passed 
over  the  girl  he  held  so  dear. 

"For  God's  sake,  Lindy  —  tell  me  what  has  hap- 
pened to  —  to  blast  you  so,"  he  burst  forth. 

"I  cannot  —  I  cannot  tell  you,  Hugh,"  she  began ; 
then,  her  voice  faint  and  tremulous,  "I  —  I  have 
come  to  bid  you  — to  bid  you  good  bye,  Hugh." 

"Ah!  —  is  that  it,  Lindy?"  Hugh  cried,  relief  in 
his  voice ;  and  he  drew  her  to  him. 

"No  —  don't !  oh  —  don't  —  Hugh !"  the  girl  im- 
plored, shrinking  away. 


LINDY  LOYD  191 

"But  why  not  —  Lindy  —  why  not?"  Hugh  expos- 
tulated. 

"Because  you  must  not !  —  you  may  not  —  now. 

—  Oh,  Hugh !  never  —  never  again!"     And  white, 
trembling,  Lindy  clung  to  the  pine. 

Into  Hugh's  soul  crept  a  nameless  foreboding  — 
impalpable,  satanic,  impossible.  "Lindy  — "  he 
cried,  desperately,  "what  is  it?  Your  face  is  white 

—  and  there  are  cruel  circles  around  your  pretty 
eyes  —  God !  your  suffering  unmans  me !  Lindy  — 
Lindy  —  what  is  it  ?  —  tell  me !" 

The  girl  strove  desperately  to  control  her  emo- 
tion. "Something  has  happened,  Hugh  —  and  — 
and  —  " 

"But  tell  me  what  —  what  has  happened,  Lindy," 
Hugh  entreated,  "let  me  help  you !  —  Ah  —  come  to 
me,  Lindy!  —  Lindy  —  come?"  his  arms  out- 
stretched. 

"But  Hugh  —  I  cannot  tell  you  —  and  —  and  I 
may  not  come !"  the  girl  replied,  wildly,  imploringly. 

Resolved  to  end  the  painful  scene,  Hugh  seized 
Lindy  in  his  arms,  pressing  her  head  with  gentle 
force  against  his  breast.  "Now,  listen  to  me,  Lindy," 
he  said,  authoritatively,  "lie  quiet  —  and  we  will  talk 
over  this  strange  happening."  Holding  her  closely 
to  him,  Hugh  constrained  her  to  listen  while  he 
soothed  her,  pleaded  with  her. 

And  Lindy  !  —  Vanquished,  the  storm-tossed  girl 
lay  quiet  within  the  haven  of  Hugh's  arms  —  her 
head  once  more  upon  his  dear  breast. 


192  LINDY  LOYD 

"Put  your  arms  around  my  neck,  Lindy,"  Hugh 
commanded. 

Lindy  obeyed. 

"Now !"  —  and  Hugh  laid  his  lips  to  hers.  "You 
are  mine  —  mine  —  Lindy!"  he  cried.  Swept  away 
by  man's  primal  instinct  he  crushed  her  fiercely  to 
him,  reiterating:  "You  are  mine! — my  wife! — God! 
—  God !  —  and  let  any  man  try  to  take  you  from 
me!" 

With  a  wild  cry  Lindy  tore  herself  from  Hugh's 
embrace.  "But  I  can  never  be  your  wife,  Hugh  — 
never  —  never!  —  You  will  not  want  me  when  — 
when  I  have  told  you,  Hugh,"  she  cried  frantically, 
her  staring  eyes  upon  him. 

Perplexed,  miserable,  Hugh  gazed  at  the  girl. 
"Lindy,"  he  cried,  passionately,  his  eyes  burning 
into  hers,  "why  cannot  you  be  my  wife?  —  tell  me  — 
tell  me  now !" 

For  a  moment  Lindy  remained  silent.  Then, 
placing  one  hand  lightly  upon  Hugh's  breast,  she 
passed  her  finger-tips  softly,  lingeringly  over  each 
lineament  in  the  effort  to  imprint  that  dear  face 
forever  upon  her  memory.  "Because,  Hugh  —  be- 
cause I  am  married  —  am  married  to  another,"  she 
whispered  as  she  turned  away. 

Hugh  went  white.  Confounded,  stricken,  he  stood 
in  awful  silence  before  the  girl. 

"Married  —  did  you  say  married  —  Lindy?"  he 
reiterated  dully. 


LINDY  LOYD  193 

But  Lindy  was  realizing  the  enormity  of  her  task 
and  could  make  no  reply. 

Again  the  awful  silence. 

"Is  this  thing  true?  —  this  —  that  you  have  said, 
Lindy?"  Hugh  burst  forth,  presently. 

Lindy  could  only  nod  assent. 

"Married  —  God !  —  God !  — when  —  when  were 
you  married?"  he  shouted. 

"Yesterday  —  "  faintly. 

"To  whom?" 

But  Lindy  remained  silent. 

"Why  —  why  did  you  marry  him?"  thundered 
Hugh. 

"I  cannot  tell  you,  Hugh  —  " 

"But  you  shall  tell  me  —  you  shall,  Lindy!  —  Why 
did  you  marry  him?"  Hugh's  hand  fell  heavy  on  the 
girl's  shoulder  —  and  he  turned  her  face  to  his. 

A  tremor  passed  over  her,  but  Lindy  did  not  fal- 
ter. "I  had  to,"  she  breathed,  her  eyes  downcast. 

"You  say  you  had  —  you  had  to  marry  him, 
Lindy?"  reiterated  Hugh,  his  strained  face  peering 
into  hers. 

"Yes  —  I  had  to  marry  him  —  "  the  girl  repeated, 
automatically.  And  Hugh,  stricken  to  stone,  stood 
desperately  regarding  her. 

Ah  —  where  is  now  your  good  angel,  Hugh,  to 
stamp  out  at  once  and  forever,  that  cruel,  insane 
doubt  that  like  a  fiery  flame  is  eating  into  your 
soul? 


194  LINDY  LOYD 

And  Lindy !  Could  she  but  have  lifted  her  eyes  — 
those  wells  of  truth  —  Hugh  would  have  read  the 
utter  whiteness  of  the  soul  within.  But  alas!  she 
did  not  —  she  dared  not!  She  must  not  allow  her- 
self another  glance  into  that  face  so  dear. 

"Lindy  —  "  and  Hugh's  voice  was  low  and  tense, 
"you  —  say  you  had  to  — " 

"Yes  —  it  is  true,  Hugh,"  panted  the  girl,  "I  had 
to  —  " 

Hugh  turned  abruptly  and  strode  down  the  moun- 
tain, his  soul  utter,  black  chaos. 

What  was  this  unbelievable  —  this  perfectly  im- 
possible thing,  so  suddenly  and  so  unexpectedly 
thrusting  its  hateful  face  into  his?  Lindy  married 
to  another?  —  it  was  unthinkable  —  maddening ! 

And  the  future !  —  Every  plan,  every  step  of  the 
way  was  associated  with  Lindy  —  centered  about 
Lindy ;  —  and  now  its  emptiness,  its  utter  loneliness 
stared  him  in  the  face.  Hugh  dared  not  think  about 
the  future. 

What  should  he  do  ?  —  where  should  he  go  ?  — 

Like  a  faint,  far-away  whisper  came  the  remem- 
brance :  —  "Hugh  —  if  —  if  —  you  find  you  can 
come  —  ever  —  " 

Ah !  —  there  was  loyalty  —  there  was  sympathy. 
He  would  go  to  Miss  Lucie.  He  would  state  the 
case  to  her  in  its  entirety  and  without  a  shadow  of 
pretence.  If  she  would  listen  —  if  she  would  accept 
his  ruined  life,  he  would  give  himself  to  her  comfort 
—  utterly. 


LINDY  LOYD  195 

Hugh  took  the  train  that  night  for  Mobile,  where, 
not  many  days  after,  Miss  Lucie  Simmons  and  he 
were  married.  They  sailed  abroad  immediately; 
Hugh,  at  the  insistence  of  Miss  Lucie,  entering  at 
once  upon  the  continuance  of  his  medical  prepara- 
tion. 


CHAPTER     XXX 

A  FEW  days  after  the  events  just  recorded, 
Joan  was  sewing  by  the  kitchen-window, 
Peter  dozing  upon  the  sill.  Suddenly  Peter 
hastily  retired  beneath  the  settle. 

"Huh !  —  thought  so,"  muttered  Joan,  peering 
from  the  window. 

The  latch  of  the  door  lifted  and  Mrs.  Hicks  en- 
tered. Seating  herself  before  the  hearth,  she 
dropped  her  face  into  her  palms  and  remained  silent. 

"Brackie,"  Joan  burst  forth,  cheerily,  "the  circuit- 
rider,  he  air  on  his  ways ;  — be  at  the  church-house 
next  Sunday,  most  likely." 

"Don't  know  ez  I'd  get  there,  anyways  —  Hass  in 
the  jail-house." 

"Yep  —  you'll  get  there,"  Joan  soothed.  "  'Spose 
whenst  Hass's  in  the  jail-house,  he  ben't  a-carryin 
on  none  outside ;  there's  that  to  think  on,  Brackie," 
she  added. 

"Mebbe  so,"  Mrs.  Hicks  agreed,  accepting  the  du- 
bious encouragement. 

"Reckon  Evie  Tuttle  an  'er  feller  '11  be  jined,  if 
the  rider,  he  kerns  by,  Joan." 

"They's  a-callatin  to  be.     Lissy  Aller,  she  war 

196 


LINDY  LOYD  197 

down  the  mountain  an  she  said  as  how  some  of  the 
neighbors  war  a-goin  over  to  the  Tuttles's  kem  to- 
morrow, to  help  Evie  with  'er  quiltin;  an  if  me'n, 
yuh  an  Miz  Rogan  could  kem  up,  inebbe,  'twixt  us 
all,  that  quilt  could  be  got  out  the  frame.  I  'lowed 
I'd  tell  yuh." 

"Yep  —  I'll  go  up.    Tomorrer?" 

"Tomorrow." 

"Joan,  what  wuz  't  ez  happened  up  to  Trim 
Aller's  on  Hallere'en  night?"  Brackie  suddenly  de- 
manded. "Hit  war  sumpin  'bout  Trim,  hisself ." 

"Haven't  you-uns  heern  tell  of  Trim  Aller's  curi- 
ous an  'sprisin  antics  on  Hallere'en,  Brackie?  — 
haven't  you,  now?"  Joan  cried. 

"No  —  I  ain't  heern  tell,"  aggrievedly. 

"Well  —  we  all  sure  had  a  great  time,  up  there, 
that  night  —  what  with  the  tricks  an  spells  an  all  the 
foolishness  of  't.  But  Trim  hisself,  Brackie  —  Trim 
—  he  war  the  one.  I  clar  for  't,  I  can  see  Trim  Aller 
a-makin  for  that  barn,  right  this  yere  very  minute !" 
and  Joan  gave  way  to  her  mirth. 

"What  war  Trim  after  —  out  there  in  the  barn?" 

"After  —  Trim  after?  —  That  war  just  hit, 
Brackie,  only  hit  war  the  yuther  way  'round ;  Trim, 
he  war  plum'  certain  that  sumpin  war  after  'im," 
gurgled  Joan. 

"Well  —  Joan  —  "  said  Mrs.  Hicks,  austerely ; 
and  Joan  went  on : 

"Yuh  wouldn't  a-blieved  that  a  broom  could  have 


198  LINDY  LOYD 

made  such  a  commotion,  Brackie,  but  that's  what  't 
war  —  just  nuthin  in  this  world  but  a  fool-broom 
that  somebody  had  rigged  up  plum'  like  a  wumman; 
had  'er  all  dressed  in  white,  with  a  bunnit  on  an  set  'er 
behind  the  door,  just  where  everybody  first  kem  in. 

"Land-er-livin !  Brackie,  but  she  was  sure  fear- 
some. They  had  the  room  dark,  an  I  wan't  the  on- 
liest  one  that  hollered  right  out  whenst  I  kem  upon 
'er.  Evie  Tuttle,  she  just  keeled  over ;  an  then  Lissy, 
she  said  she  wan't  a-goin  to  be  'sponsible  for  any 
more  faintin's,  so  she  up  an  carried  the  thing  into 
'er  bed-room  an  shut  the  door  upon  't;  an  bimeby, 
whenst  they-alls  got  ready  to  dance,  everything  war 
just  piled  into  Lissy's  room,  right  on  the  top  of  the 
broom-lady. 

"Well  —  Brackie  —  'long  'bout  midnight,  Trim, 
he  kem  in  off  the  mountain.  Seems  he'd  been  out  for 
a  couple  days,  a-hunting;  an  he  war  so  daid  tired 
that  he  just  crept  into  the  winder,  out  of  his  clothes 
and  into  his  baid  without  a-sayin  one  word  to  any- 
body. Even  Lissy,  she  didn't  know  that  Trim  had 
kem  in. 

"Yuh  knows  'zactly  how  they-alls  carry-on, 
Brackie;  an  bimeby  they'd  got  to  cuttin'  an  searin' 
round  so  that  the  hull  house  hit  just  shook  an  every- 
thing in  't ;  —  an  the  clothes  an  things  they'd  piled 
onto  the  broom-lady  dropped  onto  the  floor  an  left 
'er,  white  an  starin.  Just  'bout  that  time,  Trim,  he 
opened  up  his  peepers  —  an  there  stood  the  broom- 


LINDY  LOYD  199 

lady  a-teeterin  round  in  the  moonlight.  Trim,  he 
laid  there  an  looked  at  'er,  too  scairt  to  move  —  an 
then,  Brackie,  then  —  Miz  broom-lady,  she  just 
jumped  right  at  'im  —  yep  —  jumped  right  at  'im." 

"Ain't  't  now?"  interpolated  Mrs.  Hicks. 

"Well  —  Brackie  —  yuh  knows  no  mortal  could 
be  a-spected  to  stand  that.  Trim,  he  let  out  a  yell 
an  kem  a-bouncin  into  the  next  room  just  a-hollerin; 
an  —  I  can  tell  yuh  for  a  fact,  Brack  Hicks,  hit  war 
moughty  curious  round  there  for  a  whiles  —  what 
with  all  of  't.  Trim,  he  war  so  scairt  hisself,  that  he 
scairt  up  everybody  else ;  an  whenst  he  begun  to  hol- 
ler "hants  —  hants  —  "  an  started  for  out-doors, 
we-alls  just  streamed  right  'long  after  'im;  an  the 
last  thing  I  see  of  Trim  Aller  he  war  headed  straight 
for  the  barn  —  Lissy  after  'im,  a-carryin  some  kind 
of  a  kiver  she'd  grabbed  off  the  fence." 

"Kiver  —  a-carryin  some  kind  of  a  kiver  —  Joan 
—  you-uns  don't  mean  —  " 

"Yep  —  I  do  —  Brackie  —  that's  just  what  I 
been  a-tellin  yuh !  Trim  Aller,  he  lit  into  that  room 
just  'zactly  like  he  lit  into  baid;  just  'zactly  that 
a-ways!" 

"Laws-a-massy  —  laws-a-massy !"  twittered  Mrs. 
Hicks. 

"How  them  white  laigs  of  Trim's  did  twinkle  up 
that  lane ;  —  an  thin  —  I  never  would  a-believed  that 
Trim  Aller  had  such  thin  laigs ;  —  would  yuh  — 
Brackie?  —  Did  yuh  think  Trim  had  thin  laigs?" 
persisted  Joan,  wilfully. 


200  LINDY  LOYD 

"Me?  —  Me  —  Joan?"  Mrs.  Hicks  shrilled,  "never 
thought  nuthin  'tall  'bout  't.  I  ben't  that  kind  —  " 

"Aw  shucks !  Brack  —  " 

"Should  think  yuh'd  do  yer  best  to  forget  such 
sights,"  admonished  Mrs.  Hicks. 

"Wouldn't  yuh  now?"  Joan  agreed,  wickedly. 
"But  't  pears  like  I  can't ;  reckon  I'll  see  them  laigs 
of  Trim's  just  ez  long  ez  I  live,  Brackie." 

Mrs.  Hicks's  silence  was  eloquent  of  disapproval. 

"An  Mitry,  he  says,"  concluded  Joan,  "that  Trim, 
he's  a-goin  round  with  a  gun  these  yere  days,  just 
a-waitin  for  somebody  to  say  'ha'nts'  to  'im." 

"Spose  Si  Etter,  he  war  up  there,  Joan?"  Mrs. 
Hicks  inquired,  presently. 

"Yep,"  shortly. 

"Miz  Rogan,  she  war  a-tellin  'bout  Si,"  Mrs. 
Hicks  persisted,  "an  she  'lowed  that  he  air  ernuther 
man  since  the  bush-meetin.  —  Pore  lonesome  feller ! 
ain't  nobody  to  keer  none  whether  he  goes  right  or 
goes  wrong";  and  she  stole  a  glance  at  her  com- 
panion. 

But  Joan  vouchsafed  no  reply. 

"That  Mandy  Pegg,  now,  Joan  —  she  do  beat  all ; 
—  the  way  she  kites  round  after  —  well  —  after 
some  folkses"  Mrs.  Hicks  burst  forth,  with  apparent 
irrelevance. 

Still  Joan  remained  silent. 

"Did  yuh  ever  see  such  queer  color  hair  as  Mandy 
Pegg  have,  Joan  —  nor  so  much  of  't  —  did  yuh 


LINDY   LOYD  201 

now?"  Mrs.  Hicks  demanded,  turning  suddenly  to 
Joan. 

"Nope." 

"An  ain't  she  lame?  —  an  ain't  her  eyes  crooked 
or  —  or  sumpin?" 

"Yep." 

"Well  —  then  —  wouldn't  yuh  think  Mandy 
Pegg'd  have  sense  'nough  to  keep  herself  more  quiet, 
like?  Where'd  she  kem  from,  Joan  —  anyways?  — 
Don't  b'long  round  yere  none.  An  if  she  kem  to  get 
what  old  Granny  Pegg  left  —  why  don't  she  go 
back  —  now  that  Granny's  daid  —  an  she  have 
got  't?" 

But  Joan  remained  perfectly  non-committal. 

"Have  Lindy  been  sick,  Joan?"  Mrs.  Hicks  be- 
gan again,  presently. 

"Nope,"  was  the  discouraging  response. 

Mrs.  Hicks  jumped  to  her  feet  and  glared  at  her 
companion.  "Well  —  if  yuh  won't  talk  —  yuh  won't, 
I  reckon,"  she  snapped;  "but  Lindy,  she  certainly 
do  look  punin,'  Hite  Cronce,  he  war  a-tellin  me," 
she  persisted,  "that  the  doctor  feller,  he  have  gone 
—  gone  for  good.  'Pears  like  Hite,  he  seen  'im  go  — 
one  ev'nin.  Hit  war  four  or  five  days  a-gone,"  she 
added,  her  speculative  gaze  upon  Joan. 

"War  't?"  Joan  drawled. 

And  Mrs.  Hicks  went  out  and  slammed  the  door. 


CHAPTER    XXXI 

MITRY,  pipe  in  his  mouth,  chair  tilted  to  the 
right  angle,  was  occupying  his  after-supper 
position  upon  the  hearth,  his  eyes  following 
Lindy  as,  white  and  listless,  she  went  about  her  accus- 
tomed duties. 

"Kem  yere,  Cita,"  he  said,  presently. 

The  girl  came  obedient  to  his  call  and  dropped 
down  upon  a  low  seat  beside  him,  her  head  upon  his 
lap. 

Mitry's  arms  closed  about  her  and  for  a  time  the 
two  were  silent. 

For  some  time,  now,  indeed,  since  the  day  that 
marked  so  painful  an  epoch  in  the  life  of  the  girl, 
Mitry  had  been  quietly  observant  of  her  —  awaiting 
her  confidence. 

Lindy,  bound  by  the  hateful  restrictions  of  secrecy 
imposed  by  Hass,  had  been  perfectly  aware  of  her 
father's  condition  of  mind  —  his  anxiety  and  dis- 
satisfaction. She  was  aware  also,  that  the  situation 
would,  finally,  have  to  be  met  and  some  sort  of  an 
understanding  or  explanation  arrived  at;  and 
now,  the  time  was  come. 

"What's  hit?"  Mitry  questioned,  presently. 
202 


LINDY  LOYD  203 

Lindy  made  no  reply,  but  clung  despairingly  to 
him. 

"Leetle  gal  —  tell  Daddy  what's  a-worryin'  you- 
uns,"  he  whispered. 

Still  no  reply. 

"Cita,  I've  had  to  be  Mammy  an  Daddy  both,  to 
yuh.  Mebbe  I  haven't  alwuz  done  the  best  —  but 
I've  tried,  Cita  —  I've  tried !  —  you-uns  must  tell 
me  what's  hit!" 

"But  I  can't  tell  you,  Daddy,"  cried  the  girl  des- 
perately. 

"Can't  tell  me  —  yer  Daddy?  —  why  can't  yuh 
tell  me?"  he  demanded. 

"Because,  Daddy  —  because  I  —  I  can't." 

For  a  moment  Mitry  was  silent ;  then  —  "Have 
that  young  'Umphreys  been  a-playin  fast  an  loose  — 
consarn  —  " 

"Oh,  no  —  Daddy,  no !  Hugh  couldn't  be  unkind 
to  me.  Besides  —  he  has  gone !  —  he  has  gone!  — 
I  shall  never  see  him  again  —  oh,  Daddy  —  Daddy !" 
and  Lindy  flung  herself  upon  her  father's  breast  in 
an  abandonment  of  grief. 

"There  —  there,  Cita  —  there,  leetle  gal,"  soothed 
Mitry.  "Yer  Daddy's  yere  —  he'll  take  keer  of  you- 
uns.  He  will!"  grimly.  "What'd  'Umphreys  go  off 
for,  Cita?"  he  demanded,  presently. 

"I  sent  him  away,  Daddy." 

"Yuh  sent  'im?"  suspiciously.  "What's  he  been  — 
wisht  I'd  a  had  my  hands  onter  'im !  —  but  he'll  kem 
back  again,  Cita,  he'll  kem  back,"  he  soothed. 


204  LINDY  LOYD 

"No,  Daddy  —  Hugh  will  never  come  back. 
Never  —  never  —  "  sobbed  the  girl. 

"He  won't  kern  back?  —  Why  — " 

"Listen,  Daddy,  —  it  wasn't  Hugh !  —  I  —  I  — 
won't  let  him  come  back.  —  It  nearly  broke  Hugh's 
heart,  Daddy,  when  I  sent  him  away.  —  Oh,  Hugh  — 
Hugh  —  "  she  cried,  brokenly. 

"Then  who  wuz  't?"  demanded  Mitry.  "Hit  war 
somebody!  —  Wuz  't  that  damn  Hass?" 

The  girl  remained  silent. 

"Cita  —  wuz  't  that  devil?"  and  Mitry's  face, 
black  with  anger  peered  into  hers. 

But  Lindy  only  sobbed,  broken-heartedly. 

"God  —  God  —  "  shouted  Mitry,  trembling  with 
passion.  "There'll  kem  a  time  —  and  then  —  "  lift- 
ing his  hand  to  Heaven,  as  if  to  register  his  unspoken 
oath. 

"Don't  Daddy,  don't  —  "  cried  Lindy.  "Hass 
didn't  —  Hass  hasn't  —  " 

"Wan't  Hass  mixed  up  in  't  —  someways,  Cita?" 
Mitry  demanded. 

But  the  girl  was  speechless. 

"I  won't  have  you-uns  made  mis'ble  —  I  won't !  — 
I  won't  have  that  low-down  skunk  —  damn !  —  Cita, 
you-uns  must  tell  me  what's  hit!"  Mitry  ex- 
ploded, exasperated  at  his  helplessness. 

"Ah  —  if  I  only  could  tell  you,  Daddy  —  if  I 
ordy  could,"  grieved  the  girl.  "When  I  can  —  I  will. 
But  not  now  —  not  now.  Daddy  —  oh,  Daddy,"  she 


LINDY  LOYD  205 

burst  forth,  despairingly,  her  eyes  upon  his,  "there 
is  no  sin  of  mine  upon  my  soul  —  none!  I  am  just 
your  own  little  girl  —  your  baby,  Daddy !  —  And  I 
need  you  so  —  oh,  /  need  you  so!  You  must  hold  me 
close  to  you  Daddy  —  very,  very  close.  Could  any- 
body —  could  anybody  take  me  away  from  you, 
Daddy?"  And  Lindy,  her  eyes  wide  with  apprehen- 
sion, clung  affrightedly  to  him. 

Mitry's  answer  was  not  given  in  words. 

"And  you  must  trust  me,  Daddy  —  you  must  trust 
me  —  now,"  she  continued.  "And  you  must  wait  — 
too.  Oh,  yes  —  you  must  wait,  Daddy,"  and  the 
girl's  clear,  unfaltering  gaze  met  his.  "Can  you  wait, 
Daddy?"  she  pleaded. 

"Leetle  gal  —  leetle  gal  —  "  and  Mitry's  arms 
were  close  about  her,  his  eyes  upon  hers,  "yer  Dad- 
dy's right  yere  —  right  yere !  —  an  I  can  wait  until 
you-uns  can  tell  me  what's  hit.  —  But  that  damned 
Hass"  —  and  Mitry's  j  aw  squared,  while  his  eyes 
glowed,  ominously  —  "well  —  he  don't  wanter  kem 
my  ways  —  none." 


CHAPTER    XXXII 

THE  following  day,  towards  the  latter  part  of 
the  afternoon,  Joan,  breathless,  her  eyes  shin- 
ing, and  in  a  state  of  repressed  excitement 
generally,  joined  the  quilters  up  at  Mrs.  Tuttle's. 

"Law-a-massy !  but  yuh  be  late,  Joan  —  Where 
yuh  been?  —  where's  Lindy?"  demanded  Mrs.  Hicks. 

"Lindy,  she  have  gone  out  on  the  mountain  with 
'er  Daddy.  Didn't  know  whether  to  kem  or  not 
—  hit  be  so  late  —  "  Joan  panted.  "Just  look  at 
me  —  "  indicating  various  rents  in  her  clothing  and 
bruises  upon  her  body. 

"Why  —  yer  arms,  they  be  all  clawed  up, 
Joan  —  " 

"You-uns  ain't  a-tellin  that  't  war  a  wild  beastis, 
Joan  —  " 

"Good-land!  What  yuh  been  up  to,  Joan  — 
tell  us !"  —  demanded  the  women. 

"Been  a-savin  a  woman's  life  —  me'n  Si  Etter," 
was  the  laconic  reply. 

"A-savin  a  woman's  life  —  " 

"What  woman?  —  " 

"Oh,  shucks !  Joan,"  they  chorused. 

"Did  yuh  say  yuh'n  Si  Etter,  Joan?"  demanded 
206 


LINDY  LOYD  207 

Mrs.  Hicks.  "An  who  war  the  woman?  —  you-uns 
ain't  told  us  that  —  yit,"  she  added. 

"The  woman  war  Mandy  Pegg,"  announced  Joan. 

"Mandy  Pegg!  — " 

"She  ain't  daid?  —  " 

"Nope  —  she's  alive  —  what's  left  of  'er  —  "  Joan 
replied. 

"What's  left  of  'er?  —  Then  hit  war  a  beastis, 
Joan?" 

"Jim,  he  told  me  to  kem  down  the  mountain  early," 
interpolated  Mrs.  Rogan. 

"Go  on,  Joan,  go  on  —  "  urged  Lissy  Aller,  "tell 
we-uns." 

"Don't  know  where  to  take  hold  —  where  to  begin 
at,"  said  Joan. 

"Begin?  —  why  at  the  plum'  beginnin,"  cried  the 
women. 

"Reckon  we-alls  mought  ez  well  go  on  with  the 
quiltin,"  Mrs.  Tuttle  suggested,  quietly. 

"That's  so  —  that's  so  —  "  and  the  expectant 
women  settled  to  their  quilting  in  breathless  silence. 

"Well  — "  Joan  began,  "I  started  up  yere  in 
plum'  time  to  get  in  a  good  afternoon's  work  just 
like  I  said  I  would;  an  just  because  't  war  a  leetle 
the  nearest  I  cut  through  by  Miz  Pegg's  a-callatin 
to  take  the  trail  just  beyonst.  But  the  Lord,  he  must 
certainly  have  sent  me  that  a-ways,  for  if  I  —  or 
somebody  else  —  hadn't  a  kem  by,  that  woman  — 
well  —  she'd  a  died  a  turrible  death  —  that's  sure." 


208  LINDY  LOYD 

"Land-er-love !  —  " 

"I  wuz  just  a-hurryin  along,"  Joan  continued, 
"whenst  I  heard  sumpin  that  sounded  'zactly  like  a 
dawg  a-whimperin'.  Well  —  I  looked  all  'round,  but 
I  couldn't  see  no  dawg  —  an  then  I  made  up  my  mind 
that  't  wan't  no  dawg  at  all  —  but  somebody.  Then 
I  just  took  to  my  heels  for  Miz  Peggs's." 

"War  't  a  dawg,  Joan?"  inquired  one. 

"Hit  war  no  dawg,"  solemnly. 

"Whenst  I  kem  by,"  Joan  went  on,  "I  run  right 
into  the  house  a-huntin  an  a-hollerin  for  Miz  Pegg; 
but  I  couldn't  find  hide  nor  hair  of  'er  —  an 
all  the  time  that  turrible  sound  wuz  a-goin  on.  Hit 
sure  war  f  earsum." 

"War  't  a  ha'nt,  Joan?"  whispered  another. 

"Hit  war  no  ha'nt,"  was  the  low  reply. 

"But  mebbe  't  war,  Joan,"  persisted  one,  glancing 
timorously  about. 

But  Joan  shook  her  head  in  negation. 

"Well  —  f or-the-lan's-sake !  Joan,  what  war  't  — 
then?"  cried  Mrs.  Hicks. 

"Hit  war  Mandy  Pegg !  an"  —  all  work  was  sus- 
pended, Joan's  hearers  hanging  breathlessly  upon 
her  forthcoming  words  —  "she  war  in  the  water- 
bar'll!" 

For  the  space  of  a  few  seconds  dumb  silence 
reigned  —  the  women  gazing  blankly  at  each  other. 
Then  —  "Did  yuh  say  Mandy  Pegg  war  in  the  water- 
bar'll  —  Joan?"  somebody  breathed. 


LINDY  LOYD  209 

"That's  where  she  war  —  in  the  water-bar'll!" 
Joan  reiterated,  "just  wedged  in  —  haid  up  an  heels 
up ;  —  an  if  somebody  hadn't  a  kem  along,  Miz 
Pegg,  she'd  a  been  there  right  now  —  daid!"  An 
just  'sposin  that  bar'll  had  been  full  of  water  —  ez 
hit's  a-spected  to  be?"  Joan  went  on.  "Even  less 
would  a  done  't";  and  before  the  mental  vision  of 
each  woman  passed  the  terrible  picture. 

"Go  on,  Joan  —  go  on  —  "  urged  the  women. 

"I  don't  know  'zactly  what  happened  next,"  said 
Joan,  "reckon  I  must  have  hollered  right  out,  for 
Miz  Pegg,  she  half  opened  up  her  eyes  an  whenst 
she  see  somebody  had  kem,  she  fainted  daid  a-ways." 

"An  then  —  Joan  —  " 

"Then  I  tried  to  pull  her  out  the  bar'll.  But  she 
had  slid  way  down  in,  most  to  the  bottom  of  't  — 
shut  in  there  just  like  a  jack-knife —  an  I  couldn't 
move  'er.  Then  I  wondered  if  I  moughtn't  break 
the  bar'll.  I  clar  for  't  —  yuh  mought  a  thought 
that  such  a  thing  as  a  axe  had  never  been  heard  of 
for  I  couldn't  find  nary  a  one  —  anywheres ;  — 
an  Miz  Pegg  a-layin  there  a-dyin  —  looked  like." 

"For-the-land's-sake !    Joan  —  " 

"A-sposin  she  had  a  died,  whiles  yuh  war  a-huntin 
for  that  axe,  Joan?" 

"That  war  just  hit !"  cried  Joan.  "She  certainly 
looked  plum'  like  death  —  her  eyes  all  sunk  in  — 
one  of  'em  —  anyways,"  she  added,  significantly. 

"One  of  'em,  Joan  —  why  what  —  " 


210  LINDY  LOYD 

"Yep  —  one  of  'em!  —  just  that!"  Joan  insisted. 

"Go  on,  Joan  —  an  then  what  —  " 

Then  I  thought  mebbe  I  could  shake  her  out  —  if 
so  be  I  could  get  the  bar'll  over.  But  't  war  water- 
soaked  an  had  sunk  way  down  into  the  ground  an  I 
couldn't  move  't.  Reckon  I  must  have  gone  clear 
plum'  crazy  'bout  that  time,  for  the  next  thing  I 
remember,  I  wuz  way  down  at  the  turn  of  the  road 
a-wavin  my  apern  an  a  hollerin  over  to  Si  Etters's." 

"A-wavin*  over  to  Si  Etters,"  murmured  Mrs. 
Hicks.  "Did  Si  kern,  Joan?" 

"Kem?"  replied  Joan,  "he  war  there  ez  soon  ez  I 
war ;  an  we-alls  had  that  bar'll  over  an  had  begun  to 
pull  Miz  Pegg  out  whenst  —  whenst  —  whenst  —  " 

Here,  Joan  ceased  her  narration.  Throwing  her 
apron  over  her  face,  she  began  to  rock,  violently. 

"Go  on  —  Joan  —  "  importuned  her  hearers. 

But  Joan  remained  silent. 

"Could't  you-alls  get  Miz  Pegg  out  that  bar'll, 
Joan?"  demanded  Mrs.  Hicks. 

"Yep  —  we-alls  got  'er  out  —  got  the  most  of  'er 
out  —  anyways  —  "  was  the  muffled  reply. 

"Got  the  most  of  'er  out  —  " 

"The  most  of  'er  —  "  and  the  women  gazed  ques- 
tioningly  at  each  other. 

"Good-land-er-livin !  Joan  —  go  on  with  't !  go  on 
with  't!"  cried  one. 

"Joan  —  go  on,  now !"  commanded  Mrs.  Hicks, 
"Hit  ben't  too  bad  to  tell  —  be  't?" 


LINDY  LOYD  211 

And  Joan  sat  right  up  in  her  chair,  yanked  the 
apron  from  her  face  and  rattled  off:  "Me'n  Si,  we- 
alls  war  a-gettin  Miz  Pegg  out  that  bar'll  just  ez 
careful  ez  could  be  —  whenst  —  whenst  her  laig  — 
hit  kem  right  off"  —  reiterating  with  thrilling  em- 
phasis, her  hand  extended  in  demonstration  —  "hit 
kem  right  off  —  there  in  my  hand!" 

An  awful  silence  succeeded  this  startling  announce- 
ment, every  eye  fixed  in  horror  upon  the  narrator, 
who,  her  apron  again  over  her  face,  resumed  her 
rocking. 

"Did  —  did  Joan  say  she  pulled  Miz  Peggs's  laig 
off?"  queried  one,  weakly,  turning  to  her  neighbor. 

"She  bodaciously  did  say  that  —  " 

"For-the-land's-sake !"  — 

"Reckon  the  hull  thing  have  been  too  much  for 
Joan,"  breathed  another. 

"Reckon  't  have.  Joan  'peared  sorta  queer-like, 
whenst  she  first  kem  in." 

"That's  so.  Better  hold  some  burnt  feathers 
under  her  nose  —  if  she's  a-goin  to  faint  —  " 

"Give  'er  some  whiskey  —  " 

"Some  right  hot  tea  —  " 

"Stick  'er  feet  into  hot  water  —  "  and  the  women 
gathered  solicitously  around. 

"Joan  —  "  and  Mrs.  Hicks  placed  her  hand  upon 
Joan's  shoulder,  "d'  yuh  know  what's  hit  yer  been 
a-sayin?  —  'bout  a-pullin  Miz  Pegg's  laig  off?  — 
get  a  holt  of  yerself  —  now,"  sternly. 


212  LINDY  LOYD 

"I  bodaciously  do  know  what  I  been  a-saying," 
Joan  burst  forth,  indignantly,  "an  I  don't  want  no 
whiskey  —  nor  tea  —  nor  hot  water  —  nor  burnt 
feathers  —  an  I  ben't  queer-like,  nuther ;  Hit  war 
plum'  'zactly  ez  I  have  said!"  And  the  women  gazed 
at  each  other,  silenced. 

"What  kind  of  a  laig  have  Miz  Pegg  got,  Joan?" 
Mrs.  Hicks  inquired,  meekly. 

"Hit  be  wooden." 

"Wooden  —  "  in  varying  intonations. 

"Of  course  I  dropped  my  end  of  Miz  Pegg  —  I 
war  that  upset,"  Joan  went  on,  "an  Si  Etter,  he  war 
so  scairt  up  —  a-seein  what  I  had  in  my  hand  — 
that  he  all  but  dropped  his  end  of  'er,  too ;  —  an  he 
axed  me  did  I  think  Miz  Pegg's  haid  would  kem  off 
a-meanin  her  wig.  She  do  wear  a  wig,  Brackie," 
Joan  added. 

"That's  just  what  I  thought,"  cried  Mrs.  Hicks. 

"Go  on  —  Joan  —  go  on  —  "  urged  the  women. 

"Hit  certainly  war  no  time  for  foolin  an  me'n  Si, 
we  just  worked  ez  hard  ez  we  could  with  Miz  Pegg. 
Si,  he  got  a  leetle  whiskey  down  her  throat  an  whenst 
I  see  she  war  a-gettin  ready  to  kem  to,  we-alls  car- 
ried 'er  into  the  house." 

"A  laig  an  a  wig  —  an  that  ain't  a-sayin  a  word 
'bout  teeth,  I  'spose,  Joan  —  "  gasped  one. 

"Nope  —  an  that  ain't  all,  yet,"  cried  Joan. 

"Joan,  yuh  ben't  a-hintin  that  some  more  of 
Mandy  Pegg  war  a-missin  —  be  yuh?"  protested 
Mrs.  Hicks. 


LINDY  LOYD  213 

"Oh  —  go  on,  Joan  —  we-alls  can  stand  anything 
—  now,"  chuckled  another. 

"Well  —  Si,  he'd  just  been  a-givin  Miz  Pegg  some 
more  whiskey  whenst  her  eyes,  they  flew  open  an  — 
well  —  I  all  but  dropped  that  cup  of  whiskey, 
an  Si  Etter,  he  just  swore;  he  swore  tur- 
'ble.  'Joan,'  he  sez  —  sorta  solemn-like  —  'Miz 
Pegg,  she  haven't  got  but  one  eye'  —  sez  he ;  —  an 
his  own  war  ez  big  ez  saucers." 

"  'No  more  she  haven't'  —  sez  I." 

And  the  women  sat,  spell-bound. 

Presently  a  faint  voice  broke  the  silence:  "Joan, 
yuh  ben't  a-tellin  we-alls  that  Miz  Pegg,  she  haven't 
got  but  one  eye?" 

"That's  what  I  bodaciously  be  a-tellin  yuh,"  Joan 
replied. 

"One  eye !  —  that  do  top  't  all !" 

"Hit  do  that !" 

"Well  —  Joan  —  you-uns  must  have  kem  to  the 
last  —  now  —  " 

"Pore  Mandy  Pegg  —  " 

"Yep  —  if  she'd  only  kept  herself  a  leetle  more 
quiet  —  more  like  folkses  —  now  —  " 

"Well  —  I,  for  one,  should  think  Mandy  Pegg'd 
be  willin  now,  to  go  back  to  where  she  kem  from," 
declared  Mrs.  Hicks. 

"Wouldn't  yuh?" 

"What  bekem  of  Si  Etter,  Joan?"  cried  one. 

"Went  out  that  door  like  a  shot  off  a  shovel,"  Joan 
replied. 


214  LINDY  LOYD 

"An  I  should  think  he  mought,"  agreed  another. 

"Afeerd  to  stay  any  longer  —  most  likely,"  sug- 
gested a  third. 

"What'd  Si  think  of  't  all,  Joan?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Hicks. 

"He  didn't  say,"  dryly. 

"What  war  the  fust  thing  Mandy  Pegg  said 
whenst  she  kem  to?"  Mrs.  Hicks  persisted,  her 
speculative  gaze  upon  Joan. 

"Asked  for  'er  b'longins." 

"Good  -  land  -  er  -  livin !  Joan  —  why  where  — 
where  —  " 

"They's  in  the  bottom  of  the  bar'll,"  laconically. 

"An  did  you-uns  have  to  hunt  'em  out,  Joan?" 

"I  bodaciously  did !  —  an  I  laid  'em  all  out  on  the 
chair,  one  by  one.  By  that  time  't  had  got  so  queer, 
like,  that  I  had  to  get  out  of  the  house,  too  —  just 
like  Si  Etter ;  an  I  think  I'll  see  the  real  Mandy  Pegg 
to  the  end  of  my  days.  I  laughed  an  I  cried  all  the 
ways  up  yere.  But  I  war  just  'bliged  to  kem  if  't 
war  late,"  Joan  added. 

"An  I  sure  am  moughty  glad  you-uns  kem  up. 
Joan,"  cried  one. 

"Me,  too.  —  Wouldn't  a-missed  't  for  nuthin !" 

"Me,  nuther!" 

"Nor  me !  —  We've  had  a  great  time,  Joan." 

"Huccome  Miz  Pegg,  she  war  in  that  water- 
bar'll  —  anyways,  Joan?  —  yuh  forgot  to  tell  us 
that,"  inquired  Mrs.  Hicks. 


LINDY  LOYD  215 

"Pears  like  she'd  laid  a  board  across  the  top  an 
clumb  up  on  't  to  fix  the  water-drip ;  an  whenst  she 
sat  down  on  the  board  to  slide  back  on  the  ground, 
the  board,  hit  broke  —  an  in  she  went." 

"But  think  of  't !  A  laig  —  an  a  wig  —  an  'er  eye 
—  an  teeth !"  chorused  the  women. 

And  with  merry  jests  and  hearty  good  wishes  for 
the  bride-to-be,  they  departed. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII 

THE  wandering  colporteur,  sent  out  for  the  dis- 
tribution of  Bibles  and  religious  literature, 
appears  to  hve  been  the  pioneer  in  missionary 
effort  for  the  mountaineer. 

Later,  an  effort  for  more  systematic  evangeliza- 
tion was  made  and  the  circuit-rider,  a  clergyman 
appointed  to  certain  districts,  was  sent  out. 

With  his  Bible,  hymn-book  and  sermons  secured 
in  his  saddle-bags  (together  with  certain  recognized 
medicaments  for  diseases  of  the  body)  the  circuit- 
rider  passed  over  his  route,  visiting  the  sick  and 
dying,  encouraging  the  faint-hearted,  denouncing 
the  sinning,  uniting  in  wedlock  and,  not  infrequently, 
delivering  a  long  overdue  funeral  sermon ;  for,  as  has 
been  intimated,  the  mountaineer's  ideas  regarding  the 
proper  time  for  the  last-named  function  are  ex- 
ceedingly elastic.  According  to  his  conception  a 
funeral  and  a  burying  are  two  very  distinct  mat- 
ters —  the  former  entirely  conformable  to  conven- 
ience. As  can  be  readily  understood,  the  arrival  of 
the  "rider"  within  a  given  locality  was  an  event ;  im- 
portant matters  being  timed  thereto. 

The  following  Sunday,  therefore,  found  the  little 
church-house  filled  with  a  quiet,  attentive  congrega- 

216 


LINDY  LOYD  217 

tion.  At  the  close  of  the  service  —  and  in  accord- 
ance with  the  general  expectation  —  Evie  Tuttle  and 
her  lover  were  "jined." 

Early  the  next  day  Mrs.  Hicks  appeared  in  Joan's 
kitchen.  "What  war  that  queer  noise  in  the  church- 
house,  yesterday?"  she  inquired  as  she  settled  her- 
self comfortably  before  the  hearth,  "I  don't  mean 
the  babby  —  nor  yit  the  dawg ;  —  but  that  first  noise 
of  all?  —  the  one  that  started  up  all  the  other'ns, 
I  reckon." 

"Yuh'd  never  believe  what !"  snorted  Joan. 

"Hit  didn't  sound  like  folkses  —  nor  yit  like  a 
beastis  —  not  'zactly ;  —  don't  know's  I  ever  heard 
any  noise  just  like  't,"  Mrs.  Hicks  continued. 

"Don't  reckon  yuh  ever  did  hear  anything  like  't 
—  nor  nobody  else  did  nuther,  for  that  matter," 
sniffed  Joan. 

"Well  —  I  war  just  a-dozin  off,  Joan  —  an  I  clar 
for  't  —  I  just  set  right  up  an  —  " 

Joan  chuckled.  "Uncle  Dave,  he  set  straight  up, 
too,  Brackie.  Did  yuh  see  'im?" 

"Nope  —  I  didn't  see  'im." 

"Well  he  did  —  then;  an  he  peered  'round  so 
scairt  —  so  queer  like;  —  just  as  if  he  war 
a-spectin"  —  and  Joan  glanced  quickly  around,  her 
voice  lowered  —  "a-spectin  to  see  a  ha'nt,"  she  added. 

"What  war  't,  Joan,  anyways?" 

"Hit  war  a  whole  lot  of  things ;  —  but  first  an 
foremost,  hit  war  Mitry  Loyd." 


218  LINDY  LOYD 

"Mitry !  —  war  he  a-chokin,  Joan?" 

"Nope  —  he  wan't  a-chokin." 

"War  he  took  —  like  —  cramps  or  —  " 

"Nope  —  he  wan't  took  —  none." 

"Well  —  then  —  hit  do  beat  me !  —  What  got  up 
with  Mitry  —  Joan?"  Mrs.  Hicks  demanded. 

"Hit  was  a  sneeze,  Brackie ;  leastways  that's 
what  hit  wuz  meant  to  be  —  an  •wuzri't"  Joan  added, 
significantly. 

"A  sneeze !  —  didn't  sound  like  any  sneeze  I  ever 
heerd.  Ben't  Mitry 's  nose  all  right,  Joan?" 

"I  never  heerd  that  't  wuz'nt,"  dryly.  "But  I 
ain't  a-blamin  yuh  none  for  askin,  Brackie." 

"Then  what  war  Mitry  a-tryin  to  do  —  Joan  — 
anyways?"  austerely. 

"That's  hit  —  that's  just  hit!"  Joan  burst  forth. 
"The  church-house,  hit  be  no  place  to  try  experi- 
ments in  —  a-scarin  everybody  up,  so ;  an  that's 
'zactly  what  I  told  Mitry  Loyd.  Instead  of  a-takin 
a  good,  comfortable  sneeze,  just  like  other  folkses, 
Mitry,  he  got  a  notion  into  his  knot  that  by  holdin 
his  mouth  shut  an  a-shuttin  of  his  breath,  he  could 
shut  off  that  sneeze.  Well  —  Brackie  —  you-uns 
heard  just  'zactly  how  much  he  shut  't  off,"  Joan 
concluded,  expressively. 

"Yep,  I  heerd." 

"Hit  sounded  like  nuthin  human  that  I  ever  heerd 
—  ever!  an  I  war  that  scairt  I  jumped  plum'  up  off 
the  bench.  Sallie  Crum,  she  war  settin  there  along- 


LINDY   LOYD  219 

side  of  me,"  gurgled  Joan,  "an  she  must  have  been 
a-dozin,  too,  for  up  she  jumped  an  started  to  holler; 
an  'er  babby,  hit  all  but  rolled  off  her  lap,  Brackie; 

—  Sallie  just  did  make  out  to  grab  't  by  the  laig 
ez  't  war  a-goin  down.    Of  course  the  babby,  hit  hol- 
lered —  an  then  Hen,  he  swore.    Good-land !  Brackie 

—  how     Hen     Crum     can     swear  —  yuh     wouldn't 
b'lieve.      Just    'bout    that    time    somebody    else  — 
scairt  up,  too,  most  likely  —  must  have   got   onto 
that  dawg's  tail  —  an  there  yuh  are.     'Spose  the 
pore  beastis  didn't  feel  called  upon  to  put  up  with 
folkses  a-walkin  all  over  't.    But  't  war  bodaciously 
funny  'round  there  for  awhiles,  Brackie." 

"Hit  be  scandalous,  Joan  —  plum'  scandalous ! 
a-laughin  so  in  the  church-house,"  Mrs.  Hicks  burst 
forth.  "Just  shut  yer  eyes  —  " 

"Just  shut  my  eyes?"  shrilled  Joan.  "Well 
then  —  Brack  —  I  had  'em  shut ;  —  an  just  so's  not 
to  see  old  Mam  Kane  a-carryin  on.  Did  you-uns 
see  'er?" 

"Nope  —  I  didn't  see  Miz  Kane,"  stiffly. 

"Well  —  she  war  something  to  see ;  —  a-smilin,  an 
a-noddin,  an  a-workin  'er  mouth  'zactly  like  the 
preacher,  he  wuz  a-doin.  Hit  war  too  much  for  me. 
An  just  whenst  I'd  got  myself  quiet,  like  —  'long 
kerns  Mitry  with  his  yawp,"  Joan  concluded,  aggriev- 
edly. 

"What  be  the  matter  with  Lindy,  Joan?"  Mrs. 
Hicks  inquired,  presently.  "I  set  there  in  the  church- 


220  LINDY  LOYD 

house  yesterday  a-watchin  'er;  an  I  clar  for  't,  she 
war  that  white  an  laggy  —  " 

"Mebbe  Lindy,  she  didn't  sleep  none  too  good,  Sat- 
urday night,"  Joan  evaded. 

"An  'er  eyes,  they's  that  big  an  black,"  Mrs.  Hicks 
persisted,  "an  she  never  moved  —  never  took  them 
eyes  aways  from  Evie  an  Jim,  whenst  they's 
a-standin  up  'fore  the  preacher.  Miz  Rogan,  she 
war  a-axin  me  what  war  the  matter  with  Lindy  — 
an  —  an  she  'lowed  she  hoped  Hass  would  soon  be 
out,"  Mrs.  Hicks  added,  significantly,  her  eyes  glued 
upon  Joan. 

Joan  made  no  reply. 

"I  didn't  sleep  much  last  night,  nuther,"  Mrs. 
Hicks  went  on. 

"Hit  wan't  ha'nts  —  war  't,  Brackie?"  with  a 
quick  glance  around. 

"Don't  know  what  't  war.  Hit  be  sure  lonesome 
up  there,  Joan  —  these  yere  days,"  Mrs.  Hicks  burst 
forth.  • 

"Where  be  yer  dawg?" 

"A  dawg  couldn't  keep  the  ha'nts  away,  Joan." 

"Nope  —  a  dawg  couldn't  keep  the  ha'nts  away. 
Be  you-uns  afeerd,  Brackie?" 

"Not  'zactly  afeerd;  —  an  mebbe  't  ain't  ha'nts. 
The  dawg,  he  air  good  'nough  an  I  can  get  erlong 
if  so  be  the  ha'nts  they'll  stay  aways"  —  glancing 
over  her  shoulder;  "but  since  't  have  got  so  froze 
up,  I  listen  —  sometimes  —  for  the  wild  things  to 


LINDY  LOYD  221 

kem  'round  for  sumpin  to  eat ;  else  —  else  't  be 
ha'nts.  Hit  sure  do  be  sumpin,  Joan." 

And  the  two  women  were  silent,  each  mind  occupied 
with  one  of  the  familiar  —  but  not  on  that  account, 
acceptable  —  phases  of  the  mountaineer's  life. 

"Be  yuh  sure,  now  Brackie,  there  be  no  hole  —  nor 
place  where  a  hole  could  be  made  anywhere  'round 
yer  house?  That  cat  of  old  Granny  Pegg's,  now  — 
hit  air  the  meanest,  most  perseverin'  beastis  a-livin ; 
an  I  'spose  if  a  cat  could  get  in,  sumpin  else 
mought,  mebbe." 

"Sumpin  else  mought  get  in  —  Good-land-er-livin ! 
Joan.  Reckon  I'd  better  get  to  hum  an  peer  'round 
'fore  't  gets  dark."  And  Mrs.  Hicks  hurried  away. 

"Bring  yer  dawg  into  the  house,  tonight,  Brackie," 
Joan  called. 

"Yep  —  I  will." 

"Mitry,"  cried  Joan  that  night,  "I  be  clear  plum* 
worried  'bout  Lindy." 

Mitry  made  no  reply  but  his  mouth  settled  into 
grimmer  lines. 

"Lindy,  she's  a-worryin  'bout  something  —  that's 
sure,"  Joan  went  on,  "an  yarb-tea  won't  help  worryin 
none.  She  ain't  eatin  'nough  to  keep  a  bird  alive, 
nuther ;  —  an  she  ain't  a-sleepin  good.  Mitry  Loyd, 
the  first  thing  we-alls  knows,  Lindy,  she'll  be  down  in 
the  baid  with  a  spell  of  fever." 

Mitry  swore,  softly. 

"Did  you-uns   see  'er,  yesterday  in  the  church- 


222  LINDY  LOYD 

house,  whenst  Evie  and  Jim  war  a-standin  up  'fore 
the  preacher?" 

"Yep  —  I  see  'er,"  Mitry  replied,  bitterly. 

"Well  —  she  looked  just  like  a  poor  leetle  white 
ghost,  Mitry,  a  poor  leetle  "white  ghost  —  a-settin  up 
there  with  them  sorrowful  eyes  fixed  'pon  —  " 

"Hit  be  that  Hass !  —  that  devil  Hass!"  burst 
forth  Mitry ;  and  he  paced  the  floor,  his  eyes  blazing. 

"What's  hit,  Mitry  —  what  have  Hass  done?  —  I 
a-spected  he  war  in  't." 

"That's  'zactly  what  I  can't  find  out,  Joan  — 
just  what  I  don't  know.  I  wish  to  God  I  did !"  Mitry 
groaned.  "Cita,  she  air  a-grievin  'er  heart  out  over 
that  young  'Umphreys ;  an  Hass  —  the  low-down 
skunk  —  he  air  at  the  bottom  of  't ;  —  that  much  I 
know.  An  if  so  be  I  could  get  my  two  hands  enter 
'im  —  I'd  soon  find  out  the  rest  —  damn  'im !"  Mitry 
ground  out  through  set  teeth. 


CHAPTER     XXXIV 

WINTER  was  abroad  in  the  forest.  The  trees, 
stripped  and  bare,  shivered  in  the  icy  wind ; 
frozen  twigs  and  branches  snapped  and 
crackled  beneath  one's  tread;  the  rocks  rose  naked 
and  cold,  the  lifeless  vines  rattling  at  their  feet.  Deep 
down  beneath  the  frozen  surface,  tucked  carefully 
away,  the  countless  children  of  the  forest  lay  sleep- 
ing. Hidden  within  the  embrace  of  the  trees,  within 
the  caves  and  secret  places  of  the  mountains,  the 
forest-dwellers  lay  dormant,  all  awaiting  Nature's 
command  to  come  forth. 

But  the  forest  was  still  beautiful.  Above  the  deli- 
cate tracery  of  the  bare  branches  stretched  the  blue 
sky.  Mingled  with  its  clear  tint  were  the  ever-chang- 
ing blues  of  the  mountains  —  so  darkly  blue  in  the 
distance  —  melting  to  tender  greys,  then  changing 
to  black  in  the  shadows ;  nearer  earth  were  the  som- 
ber colors  of  the  rocks  and  the  soft  browns  of  the 
dead  verdure. 

Everywhere  were  stately  evergreens  and  the  shin- 
ing holly  and  laurel.  From  the  frozen  sod  arose  the 
hardy  galax,  its  glossy  green  leaves  changed  to  a 
rich,  russet-brown ;  while  directly  underfoot  could  be 
found  the  running-cedar,  the  wintergreen  and  the 

188 


224  LINDY  LOYD 

partridge-berry.  To  the  ear  came  the  tinkle,  tinkle, 
tinkle  of  the  mountain  stream  rushing  between  ice 
fringed  banks  and,  occasionally,  a  stray  bird-note. 

Within  the  little  community  day  succeeded  day 
with  quiet  monotony,  the  hours  filled  with  the  em- 
ployments of  the  season.  For  the  women,  an  occa- 
sional "quiltin',"  a  "carpet-rag"  party,  a  "candle- 
dippin' "  or  a  "visitin',"  might  vary  the  uniformity 
of  daily  life,  but,  ordinarily,  the  time  passed  un- 
eventfully enough. 

For  the  men  there  were  the  usual  winter  pursuits : 
logs  to  be  hewn  for  spring  repairing  and  building, 
new  ground  to  be  cleared  and  —  not  of  least  con- 
sideration —  hunting.  Small  pelts  brought  good 
prices  in  the  market;  these,  together  with  an  occa- 
sional larger  skin,  formed  quite  a  source  of  revenue 
for  the  hunter.  For  recreation,  there  were  gather- 
ings for  feats  of  skill  —  bouts  at  jumping,  wrestling, 
shooting  and  various  pastimes;  not  forgetting  a 
very  occasional  "preachin',"  a  "country-dance"  and 
the  ever  seasonable  "courtin'." 

About  this  time  Hass  Hicks  succeeded  in  making 
his  escape  from  jail  —  severely  wounding  an  officer, 
who  died  soon  after.  Hass  was  now  a  marked  man 
in  the  eyes  of  the  law.  Not  only  was  he  recognized  as 
a  moonshiner  and  a  desperate  character,  generally, 
but  he  was  now  a  murderer  as  well.  The  final  result 
could  be  foreseen :  Hass  was  recaptured.  Incarcerated 
anew,  he  awaited  his  trial  for  murder. 


LINDY  LOYD  225 

With  the  escape  of  Hass  from  jail,  Lindy's  health 
gave  way  utterly.  To  the  distressing  conditions 
already  surrounding  her  was  added  the  burden  of 
fear;  and  the  girl  lived  in  constant  dread  of  Hass's 
sometime  appearance  and  the  assertion  of  his  lawful 
claims.  If  she  could  but  have  shared  the  terrible  load. 
But,  alas  —  she  could  not.  Her  promise  had  been 
given  and  she  would  keep  it.  At  the  time  of  Mass's 
recapture  Lindy,  tossing  in  wild  delirium,  was  pass- 
ing anew  through  the  painful  experiences  of  the  past. 
"I  cannot  tell  you,  Hugh  —  I  cannot  —  Oh,  Daddy 

—  Daddy  —  if  I  only  could  —  Because  I  had  to, 
Hugh  —  yes  —  I  had  to  —  I  had  to  —  I  had  to  —  " 
or  starting  up,  her  eyes  fixed  and  wild,  "and  if  I 
don't,    Hass  —  you'll  —  Oh,    Daddy   and   Hugh  — 
Daddy  and  Hugh  —  Daddy   and  Hugh  —  Oh  —  I 
loathe  him  —  I  loathe  him  —  "  on  and  on  in  endless 
reiteration  went  the  tired  voice;  and  Mitry,  heart- 
broken, watched  by  her  bed. 

Entering  the  room  upon  one  occasion,  Joan  found 
Mitry  standing  white  and  tense  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  his  eyes  glued  upon  Lindy's  "marriage-lines." 

Without  a  word  Mitry  handed  the  paper  to  Joan 

—  and  suddenly  his  step  and  bearing  had  become  that 
of  an  old  man.  White,  speechless,  the  two  faced  each 
other. 

"Where  —  "  Joan  gasped. 
Mitry  pointed  to  the  floor. 
"The  blarsted  hound !  —  so  that  war  hit?  —  God ! 


226  LINDY  LOYD 

—  my  leetle  gal  —  my  leetle  gal  —  "  he  panted.  And 
Mitry  dropped  upon  his  knees  and  bent  over  the 
emaciated  little  figure. 

"Hit  air  beyond  all  bearin,  Joan,"  he  blazed, 
springing  to  his  feet.  "Why  —  why  she  have  been 
a-f eared !  —  Cita  have  been  a-feared,  Joan !  I'll  — 
I'll  —  my  God !  —  what  —  "  and  Mitry  gesticulated, 
wildly. 

"Mitry,"  said  Joan,  and  her  tears  fell  fast,  "I  for 
one,  be  perfectly  willing  to  leave  the  Almighty  to 
deal  with  Hass  in  this.  Hit  be  a  matter  far  beyond 
any  human  settlement." 

The  days  passed  and  Lindy  lay,  worn  and  wasted. 
At  times  the  agonizing  story  would  begin  again  — 
told  alas,  in  whispers,  now.  But  for  the  most  part 
the  girl  lay  quiet,  her  sweet  4if e  ebbing  away. 

"She  has  something  on  her  mind  —  some  fear  is 
pursuing  her,"  declared  the  specialist  whom  Mitry 
in  his  desperation  had  persuaded  to  come.  "There 
may  be  an  interval  of  consciousness  —  I  say  there 
may  be.  —  It  is  barely  possible.  If  such  an  interval 
should  occur  — "  he  continued  —  and  he  gazed 
straight  into  Mitry's  anguished  eyes  —  "and  it  could 
be  taken  advantage  of  in  just  the  right  way,  this 
fear  removed,  the  mind  set  at  rest  and  natural  sleep 
should  follow  —  well  —  I  don't  know  —  "  and  he 
turned  away  —  "there  might  be  a  chance  for  her.  I 
say  there  might  be,"  he  reiterated,  impressively. 
"Otherwise  — "  and  the  great  man  took  his  de- 
parture. 


LINDY   LOYD  227 

The  Doctor's  words  appealed  with  especial  sig- 
nificance to  Mitry.  As  has  been  said,  the  tie  existing 
between  Lindy  and  her  father  was  particularly  close 
and  endearing.  Had  he  not  always  helped  her, 
shielded  her,  cherished  her?  If,  therefore,  human  aid 
was  essential  in  the  coming  crisis  —  if  crisis  there 
were  —  who  could  proffer  it  better  than  he?  who, 
better  —  through  God's  great  mercy  —  could  stay 
—  perhaps  call  back  —  the  wandering,  wavering 
soul  from  the  borders  of  Eternity?  And  with  grim 
determination  Mitry  set  himself  to  do  battle  with 
the  Destroyer.  "God  Almighty  —  send  we  can  win 
out  —  send  we  can  win  out?"  he  pleaded. 

There  came  a  time  when  to  the  watcher  beside  the 
bed  it  appeared  as  if  Death  might  already  have 
claimed  the  girl  —  so  motionless  she  lay  —  so  faint 
and  uncertain  her  respiration.  Stilling  his  anguish 
Mitry  waited,  tense  and  quiet,  his  whole  soul  engaged 
in  the  struggle. 

Presently,  with  a  little  fluttering  breath,  the  heavy 
lids  slowly  lifted  and  Lindy  gazed,  half  uncon- 
sciously, into  her  father's  face.  "God  Almighty  — 
send  we  can  win  out  —  "  breathed  Mitry  in  this  su- 
preme moment. 

"Yer  Daddy's  yere,  Cita  —  "  Mitry's  voice  was 
low  and  steady  and  his  eyes  held  hers.  "Listen,  Cita, 
as  the  look  of  intelligence  deepened,  "Daddy,  he 
knows  all  'bout  't  —  now  —  he  knows  'bout  all  of  't, 
Cita.  —  An  Hass  —  he  be  back  in  the  jail-house." 


228  LINDY  LOYD 

And  Mitry  gently  lifted  the  pale  little  hand  within 
his  reassuring  clasp. 

Into  the  beautiful  eyes  crept  a  look  of  comprehen- 
sion, and  with  a  soft  breath  of  relief,  Lindy  slept. 


CHAPTER    XXXV 

THE  days  passed,  each  bringing  its  quota  of 
added  strength  and  Lindy  crept  slowly  back 
to  life.    No  small  factor  in  her  recovery  was 
the  relief  afforded  by  the  removal  of  secrecy  and  of 
the  immediate  fear  of  Hass. 

The  impression  left  upon  Lindy  by  her  enforced 
marriage  was  that  of  unreality  and  of  loathing.  Of 
Hass,  as  the  miserable  author  of  her  griefs,  she  re- 
fused to  think.  But  deep  within  her  innermost  being, 
an  experience  too  dear,  too  sacred  to  be  shared,  were 
enshrined  the  memories  of  Hugh  Humphreys. 

So  the  winter  hastened  by  and  the  girl  gradually 
recovered  health  and  strength. 

One  morning  in  the  early  spring,  Mitry  entered 
the  kitchen  and  glanced  cautiously  about.  "That 
dad-blarsted  skunk,  he  have  broke  jail  again,  Joan!" 
he  announced  in  a  low  voice.  "Hass,  he  air  a-hidin 
out."  And  the  two  gazed  inquiringly  at  each  other. 

"Well  —  "  replied  Joan. 

"Wisht  Lindy,  she  didn't  have  to  heern  tell  of  't  — 
didn't  have  to  know  nuthin  'tall  'bout  't;  an  she 
hadn't  ought  to  be  left  alone  't  all,  now,  Joan." 

"Nope  —  Lindy  hadn't  ought  to  be  left  alone," 
Joan  agreed.  "There's  Brackie  —  she'll  tell  —  " 

229 


230  LINDY  LOYD 

"Reckon  she  will.  The  widder  —  now  —  Joan  — 
she  ain't  never  said  nuthin  to  you-uns  'bout  Lindy  an 
Hass  a-bein  jined  —  have  she?" 

"Nope." 

"Then  Hass,  he  air  a-keepin  his  mouth  shut  'bout 
that  —  damn  'im !  Well  —  Joan  —  reckon  we-alls 
can  take  keer  of  Lindy,"  Mitry  concluded,  grimly, 
his  hand  unconsciously  seeking  his  pistol. 

"Mitry  Loyd,"  cautioned  Joan,  "you-uns  don't 
want  Hass's  blood  on  yer  soul  —  noways!  —  'spe- 
cially since  the  law,  hit  have  jined  'im  to  Lindy !" 

"I  won't  have  Hass  Hicks  a-kemin  'round  yere, 
none,"  exploded  Mitry. 

"Mebbe,  now,  they-alls'll  catch  'im  soon,  again," 
Joan  soothed. 

"No  such  luck,"  muttered  Mitry.  "Rufe  Kane,  he 
said  that  Hass'd  had  a  plum'  good  start  this  yere 
time  —  broke  out  in  the  night;  an  if  a  feller  has  a 
good  start  —  well  —  there  be  places,  you-uns  knows 
that,  Joan." 

"Yep  —  I  knows  that.  'Pears  like  Hass,  he  had 
'nough  sense  to  wait  'till  the  snow  war  all  off  the 
ground,  Mitry." 

"Huh !"  Mitry  snorted. 

"Hass,  he  be  a  poor  doomed  feller,  anyways  yuh 
can  fix  't,  Mitry  —  whether  he  air  to  fall  by  the  hand 
of  man  or  by  the  Almighty,"  Joan  went  on.  "From 
what  I  can  heern  tell,  Hass,  he  be  most  daid,  right 
now.  Hit  takes  a  strong  feller  to  hide-out,  Mitry." 


LINDY  LOYD  231 

"Such  varmints  b'long  in  the  jail-house,  anyways," 
Mitry  persisted. 

"Well  —  you-uns  have  got  to  keep  yer  hands  off  — 
this  yere  time,  anyways,  Mitry." 

"Mebbe  so  —  mebbe  so,  Joan !  but  we-alls  have  got 
to  watch  out  —  an  Lindy,  she  don't  want  to  be  left 
alone  —  never!"  Mitry  reiterated. 

"We-alls'll  watch  out,  Mitry." 

Since  Lindy's  recovery,  all  mention  of  Hass  Hicks 
had,  by  common  consent,  been  carefully  avoided ;  and 
her  marriage  —  owing  to  its  seeming  unreality,  and 
the  girl's  utter  indifference  to  the  instigator  of  it  — 
appeared  to  have  passed  into  oblivion.  Nevertheless, 
the  hated  fact,  together  with  an  unspoken  dread  of 
Hass's  possible  claims,  remained  ever  present. 

Shortly  after  this  conversation  Mrs.  Hicks  came 
hurrying  over.  "Have  you-uns  heern  tell  'bout  Hass, 
Joan?"  she  cried. 

"Yep  —  I've  heern,  Brackie.  Don't  worry  bout 
't." 

But  Mrs.  Hicks  had  flung  her  apron  over  her  face 
and  was  sobbing:  "He'll  die,  Joan  —  he'll  die  cer- 
tain, out  there  on  the  mountain !  —  An  them  mis'ble 
doves,"  she  went  on,  irrelevantly,  "they's  been 
a-settin  there  on  my  trees  for  the  last  two  days  just 
a-moanin'  —  an  a-moanin'  —  an  a-moanin'  —  'till 
they've  nigh  'bout  drove  me  plum'  crazy.  —  I  just 
knowed  sumpin  war  a-goin  to  happen." 

"Shucks  !  Brackie,  them  doves,  they've  got  nuthin  't 


232  LINDY  LOYD 

all  to  do  with  't ;  —  an  Hass,  he  can  take  keer  of 
himself,  anyways." 

"But  Hass,  he  ben't  able  to  hide-out,  Joan; 
he's  just  a-coughin'  an  a-coughin'  all  the  time  —  an 
so  thin  an  weak,  like.  Yuh  don't  know,  Joan  —  yuh 
don't  know." 

"Mebbe,  now,  hit  won't  be  so  bad,  Brackie ;  —  an 
there's  'bliged  to  be  warmer  weather  'fore  long,  now." 

"Sposen  he  gets  sick,  Joan  —  out  there  on  the 
mountain  all  alone?" 

"Well  —  Hite,  he'll  watch  out  for  'im ;  reckon 
Hite,  he  knows  'bout  where  to  find  'im,  Brackie." 

"Yep  —  reckon  he  do." 

"An  the  folkses,  they-alls  won't  let  'im  starve; 
an  you-uns  can  get  sumpin  up  to  'im,  too,  Brackie. 
Oh,  shucks !  there  be  plenty  of  ways  to  take  keer  of 
Hass,"  cried  Joan,  bent  upon  cheering  her  com- 
panion. 

Owing  to  the  bitter,  long-existing  feud  regarding 
moonshining,  it  is  perhaps  inevitable  that  the  moun- 
taineers, generally  speaking,  should  be  united  in  a 
common  cause  against  the  law.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
it  is  quite  the  customary  thing  for  the  fugitive  from 
justice  —  flying  to  the  shelter  of  the  mountains  — 
to  be  aided  and  abetted  by  them  in  every  way  pos- 
sible. Food  and  various  necessities  may  be  found 
deposited  in  perfectly  unexpected  places ;  the  bend- 
ing of  a  twig  in  a  contrary  direction,  or  some 
equally  simple  displacement  of  Nature's  arrange- 


LINDY   LOYD  233 

ments,  serving  as  a  sufficient  indication  —  to  the 
initiated  —  of  sustentation  near  at  hand.  Given  the 
necessary  physique,  not  too  rigorous  a  season  and 
time  enough  to  reach  one  of  Nature's  fastnesses,  and 
a  criminal  can  quite  successfully  "hide-out"  and 
eventually  succeed  in  evading  the  clutches  of  the  law. 

"Hass,  he  ben't  a-goin  to  live  long,  anyways,  Joan. 
I  ain't  said  anything  'bout  't  —  but  I  mought  ez 
well,  now,"  and  Mrs.  Hicks  wiped  away  the  tears.  "I 
see  that,  the  last  time  I  wuz  up  to  the  jail-house ;  — 
an  I  war  a  gettin  what  comfort  I  could  a-thinkin  he 
war  likely  to  die  peac'bly,  up  there,  in  his  baid  — 
stidder  —  stidder  —  that  other  way ;  but  now  —  to 
starve  —  mebbe  to  freeze  to  death  —  "  and  the  poor 
mother  rocked  in  her  misery.  "He  be  all  I  got !  — 
Oh,  my  Lord  —  my  Lord  —  if  he  could  only  die  in 
his  baid  —  "  she  moaned. 

"Mebbe  the  Almighty,  He  means  Hass  to  die  in 
his  baid,  Brackie." 

"I  don't  see  how  —  now,  Joan." 

"Nor  me  nuther.  But  that  makes  no  difference. 
You-uns  mought  ask,  Brackie,"  gently. 

"Yep  —  I  mought  do  that,"  and  the  two  were 
silent. 

"Hit  do  beat  all  how  the  Spring  be  a-kemin  on," 
Joan  cried,  cheerily.  "Did  you-uns  hear  the  frogs 
a-hollerin  last  night,  Brackie?" 

"Yep  —  an  the  black-birds,  they  be  a-hollerin, 
too ;  —  an  the  robins,  an  the  blue-birds,  an  —  oh  — 


234  LINDY   LOYD 

all  of  'em!  they's  just  a-flockin  'round,"  responded 
Mrs.  Hicks. 

"An  the  willers,  they  be  a-turnin  green, 
Brackie  —  " 

"An  the  ground,  hit  war  kivered  with  worms,  yes- 
terday, an  you-uns  knows  what  that  means,  Joan." 

"An  did  you-uns  hear  the  thunder,  the  other  night, 
Brackie?  That  means  the  snakes,  they  be  a-turnin' 
over,  too,"  Joan  added,  mischieviously. 

"Snakes !"  and  Mrs.  Hicks  shuddered. 

"I  see  Si  Etter,  yesterday,  Joan,  an  he  sure  do  look 
mis'ble.  That  niece  of  his  she  have  gone  back  hum 
an  the  pore  feller  air  a-livin  there  all  by  hisself.  I 
clar  for  't,"  turning  to  her  companion,  "there  be  no 
man  on  the  face  of  God's  earth  ez  can  get  'long  com- 
fort'bly  all  alone.  Hit  be  plum  against  nature." 

Joan  made  no  reply. 

"Well  —  "  Mrs.  Hicks  went  on,  "if  Si  Etter  don't 
take  keer  of  hisself,  he'll  be  down  fast  in  his  baid ;  — 
looks  like  he  be  ready  for  't,  right  now." 

"Mebbe,  now,  Si's  a-sorrowin  'cause  Aunt  Polly, 
she  be  daid,"  Joan  suggested,  ^sweetly. 

Mrs.  Hicks  turned  and  looked  at  Joan.  "Eh  — 
what's  that?  —  what's  that,  yuh  said?"  she  de- 
manded. 

"Mebbe  Si,  he's  a-sorrowin  'cause  Aunt  Polly,  she 
be  daid,"  repeated  Joan.  "Mebbe  that's  what's 
a-ailin  'im." 

"Why  of  course !  —  of  course,  now,  that  be  hit," 


LINDY   LOYD  235 

cried  Mrs.  Hicks,  elated  at  Joan's  unwonted  and 
kindly  recognition  of  Si  Etter.  "We-alls  knows  just 
what  a  good,  kind-hearted  feller  —  " 

"I  war  just  a-sayin  Brackie,"  Joan  persisted, 
coolly,  "that  Si,  he  war  a-sorrowin  just  'cause  he 
wan't  nuthin  like  so  comfortable  ez  he  used  to  be  — 
now  that  Aunt  Polly,  she  be  gone;  that's  what  I  said. 
Reckon  Si  Etter,  he  ben't  a-sorrowin  for  nuthin 
else,"  she  added,  wickedly. 

"Eh  —  what  —  what?"  stammered  Mrs.  Hicks, 
gazing  doubtfully  at  her  companion.  Then  —  Joan's 
perversity  finally  dawning  upon  her  —  "What  have 
that  pore  feller  done  to  yuh  —  anyways,  Joan,  that 
yuh  can  never  have  a  kind  word  for  'im?"  she  burst 
forth,  angrily. 

But  Joan  maintained  a  discreet  silence. 


THERE  came  a  night  when  Lindy  was  again 
alone. 

Early  that  morning,  Mitry,  with  his  dog 
and  gun,  had  started  up  the  mountain.  Later  in  the 
day  a  heavy  wind-storm  had  set  in,  increasing  in 
violence  as  the  darkness  fell. 

In  the  intervals  between  the  blasts  one  could  hear 
the  wind,  like  a  thing  of  evil,  creeping  stealthily 
about  the  cabin,  seeking  entrance.  Suddenly,  shriek- 
ing with  rage,  it  would  swoop  down,  seize  the  tene- 
ment in  fierce  embrace,  shake  it  to  its  very  founda- 
tion and  —  barely  releasing  it  —  retire,  muttering 
threats  of  future  demolition. 

But  all  was  peace  and  cheer  within. 

"The  Lord  have  mercy  on  the  pore  soul  ez  has  no 
kiver  over  his  haid  this  night,"  cried  Joan,  "hit  cer- 
tainly do  be  fearsum." 

"Oh  —  but  I  love  the  storm,  Aunt  Joan !  it  is  so 
big  —  so  masterf ul-like !" 

"Mitry,  he  ought  to  be  in  soon,  now,"  remarked 
Joan,  placing  his  supper  upon  the  hearth. 

"Maybe  Daddy  won't  come  down ;  —  maybe  he'll 
stay  up  there  with  the  men,  tonight." 

236 


LINDY  LOYD  237 

"He'll  kem  down,"  Joan  replied.  "There  — 
now  —  "  as  a  step  was  heard  outside. 

But  it  proved  to  be  Rufus  Kane,  anxious-eyed  and 
breathless.  "Can  you-uns  kem  over  —  quick,  Joan?" 
he  burst  forth,  "the  leetle  feller  —  he  have  been  took 
bad  again  —  an  Becky,  she  wants  yuh !  —  she  wants 
yuh  bad,  Joan." 

"Oh  Ruf e !  if  Mitry  war  yere  —  Lindy's  alone 
an  —  "  began  Joan,  torn  between  the  instincts  of 
common  humanity  and  Mitry's  express  orders. 

"But  Aunt  Joan  I've  stayed  alone,  often  —  I'm 
never  afraid  —  never !  and  Daddy's  likely  to  get  in 
at  any  moment,  now,"  cried  Lindy. 

"Becky  —  she  'peared  to  be  a-f eared  the  leetle 
feller'd  choke  'fore  we-uns  could  get  back,  Joan  —  " 
Rufe  muttered. 

"Oh,  hurry  —  Aunt  Joan,  hurry !"  Lindy  urged. 
Filled  with  misgivings,  yet  unable  to  refuse,  Joan 
hurried  away  with  Rufus. 

Later,  her  father  still  absent,  Lindy  sought  her  bed 
and  fell  peacefully  asleep. 

Fury  and  tumult  were  abroad  on  the  mountain. 
The  wind  had  become  rampant.  Like  a  wicked 
spirit  it  raged  hither  and  thither  seeking,  devouring, 
shouting  in  demoniac  glee.  The  trees,  shuddering, 
moaning,  bent  at  the  cruel  onslaughts,  bits  of  wreck- 
age flying  before  his  fierce  breath.  Overhead,  the 
jagged,  black  clouds  hurried  tumultuously  on.  The 


238  LINDY  LOYD 

moon,  careening  wildly,  peered  dimly  through  the 
broken  mass  upon  the  mad  havoc  below. 

Ah !  —  was  that  a  shadow  —  some  wreck  of  the 
forest  carried  before  the  gale? 

Alas,  no !  —  The  moon,  breaking  suddenly  through 
the  clouds,  proclaimed  it  a  human  wreck,  battling 
feebly  with  the  storm. 

Wasted,  gasping,  well-nigh  overcome  in  the  un- 
equal struggle,  Hass  —  upheld  by  the  consuming  de- 
sire to  see  again  the  one  love  of  his  life  —  had  come 
down  from  the  mountain.  Crouching  under  some 
overhanging  rock,  creeping  furtively  from  tree  to 
tree,  listening,  peering,  watching  the  shadows,  scan- 
ning each  doubtful  place  for  a  hidden  foe,  he  had 
stumbled  along ;  —  the  watchword :  "Lindy  —  leetle 
Lindy,"  ever  on  his  feverish  lips. 

Hass  knew  that  Lindy  was  alone.  On  his  way 
down,  early  that  morning,  the  hunters  had  passed 
him  and  he  had  gathered  from  their  conversation 
that  a  long  trip  was  in  prospect  —  that  Mitry,  in 
all  probability,  would  return  late  that  night  —  if  at 
all,  now  that  the  storm  had  so  increased.  Later, 
watching  from  his  shelter,  he  became  aware  of  Rufe's 
emergency  and  of  Joan's  response ;  —  had  heard 
Lindy's  gay  "good  night"  and,  presently,  all  sound 
and  movement  having  ceased  in  the  cabin,  knew  that 
the  girl  had  sought  repose. 

Evidently  the  time  was  opportune.  And  why  not 
—  anyway?  he  meditated.  Lindy  was  his  wife.  He 


LINDY  LOYD  239 

had  every  right.  By  this  time  she  would  have  ac- 
cepted the  fact  of  her  marriage  and  have  learned  to 
think  of  him  kindly.  So  he  reasoned;  and  sud- 
denly, overcome  by  the  thought  that  the  desire  of  his 
heart  was  at  last  to  be  gratified,  that  he  was  to  look 
once  more  into  the  face  of  the  girl  he  loved  so  pas- 
sionately, Hass  sank  trembling  to  the  ground. 

Strange  that  he  should  be  in  such  a  weakened  con- 
dition —  continuing  his  meditations.  Certainly  he 
was  very  tired,  also  worn  with  his  long  hiding-out 

—  with  the  exposure  and  privations  it  had  entailed, 
but  this  —  .    And  of  course  he  was  famished.    God ! 

—  when  had  he  tasted   a  good  meal  —  and  Hass 
cursed,  quietly.     Then  this  cough !  —  as  a  terrible 
paroxysm  intervened. 

After  a  while,  Hass  staggered  weakly  to  his  feet. 
Gazing  warily  about,  he  crept  nearer  the  cabin  and 
presently,  watching  an  opportunity  between  the 
blasts,  he  left  his  cover,  darted  across  the  open  and 
quietly  entered  the  kitchen ;  —  for  a  locked  door  is 
a  thing  unknown  to  the  mountaineer. 

But  the  fact  that  he  had  at  last  reached  his  goal  — 
that  he  was  now  beneath  the  same  roof  with  the  de- 
sire of  his  heart  —  together  with  the  relief  afforded 
by  the  comforts  of  home  spread  before  his  longing 
eyes :  the  fire  upon  the  hearth,  the  supper  beside  it, 
proved  to  be  more  than  the  wretched  outcast  could 
immediately  endure;  and  Hass  was  seized  with  an- 
other attack  of  trembling  and  of  weakness. 


240  LINDY  LOYD 

Presently,  however,  warmed  and  fed,  Hass  re- 
vived. Crossing  the  kitchen,  he  noiselessly  lifted  the 
latch  of  the  adjoining  room  and  stood  for  a  moment 
in  the  doorway.  It  was  very  still  within,  only  the 
girl's  soft  breathing  broke  the  silence. 

Lindy's  room  was  dimly  lighted  and  as  Hass  stood 
peering  within,  some  faint  stirrings  of  his  better  na- 
ture, a  feeble  comprehension  of  his  utter  unfitness  to 
enter  so  pure,  so  peaceful  a  retreat,  was  born  within 
him.  But  muttering,  "I  have  the  right  —  I  have  the 
right  —  "  Hass  stole  softly  across  the  room  and  bent 
over  the  sleeping  girl. 

"Lindy  —  leetle  Lindy  —  "  broke  from  his  trem- 
bling lips.  "I  didn't  know  she  war  so  leetle,"  he 
breathed,  noting  the  slender  shape  beneath  the  cov- 
erings, "why  —  she  be  most  like  a  babby  —  a  purty 
babby!"  and  his  eyes  devoured  the  unconscious 
sleeper.  Again  Hass  was  shaken  with  a  fit  of  trem- 
bling. "Curse  't  —  curse  't"  —  he  whispered,  cling- 
ing to  the  side  of  the  bed. 

And  Hass  was  right.  Lindy,  slight,  fragile,  not 
yet  fully  recovered  from  her  long  illness,  was  like 
some  pretty  child.  It  had  been  found  necessary  to 
remove  her  hair  during  her  illness  and  the  new  growth 
lay  in  soft,  curling  rings  all  about  her  face;  the 
heavy  lashes  swept  her  cheek;  her  night-robe, 
loosened  at  the  throat,  revealed  the  pure  whiteness  of 
the  flesh  beneath ;  one  bare  arm,  perfect  in  contour, 
was  flung  in  graceful  abandon  above  her  head;  and 


LINDY  LOYD  241 

with  chin  slightly  uplifted,  Lindy  lay  wrapped  in 
the  deep,  the  all-embracing  sleep  of  youth. 

Presently,  that  fatal  weakness  again  overcome, 
Hass  turned  to  find  Lindy,  her  eyes  wide  with  hor- 
ror, dazedly  regarding  him. 

Had  it  come  true  —  then  —  the  ever-present  fear? 
Was  Hass  —  even  now,  sitting  beside  her  bed?  Oh, 
no !  —  it  could  not  be. 

"Lindy  —  leetle  Lindy  —  "  Hass  panted,  weakly. 

Ah,  then  —  it  was  indeed  true!  —  this  gaunt, 
wild-eyed,  white-faced  specter  was  in  very  deed,  Hass 
—  her  husband!  and  with  every  pulse  hammering  a 
violent  protest,  Lindy  closed  her  eyes  and  shrank 
away. 

"Lindy  —  Lindy  —  be  you-uns  a-hatin  me  yet?" 
Hass  cried,  despairingly.  "I  had  to  kem,  Lindy  — 
I  had  to!  Hit  just  got  so  bad  that  I  had  to  see  yuh 
once  more.  —  So  I  crept  down.  Hit  be  queer"  —  he 
muttered  —  "don't  seem  to  'member  how  I  got  yere, 
though.  Lindy  —  leetle  Lindy  —  "  he  burst  forth, 
pleadingly,  "say  you-uns  don't  hate  me  any  more !  — 
say  't,  Lindy  —  say  't!  —  so  I  can  have  sumpin  to 
carry  back  up  the  mountain ;  —  for  I  must  be  a  good 
ways  up  the  trail  'fore  the  mornin',  hit  be  yere,"  he 
muttered. 

But  Lindy,  struggling  desperately  with  her  fear, 
was  deaf  to  his  plea.  Oh  —  she  must  be  calm !  — 
she  must  get  control !  —  surely  she  had  need  of  all 
her  tact,  her  faculties,  in  this  emergency. 


242  LINDY  LOYD 

"Hit  be  turrible  —  turrible  —  Lindy,  a-hidin- 
out,"  Hass  went  on,  "Nobody  knows  —  nobody 
knows.  Hit  be  bitter  cold  up  on  the  mountain,  too ; 
an  kem  times  whenst  there  be  nuthin  't  all  to  eat. 
Mebbe  yuh  ben't  able  to  get  out  to  look  for  't,  nuther ; 
—  dassent  —  most  likely ;  —  an  yuh  just  got  to  go 
hongrey" ;  and  Hass  leaned  wearily  forward,  his  head 
supported  in  his  hands. 

"Kem  times  whenst  yuh  can't  keep  warm  —  no- 
ways" he  continued,  presently ;  —  "whenst  yuh  das- 
sent  have  no  fire  'count  of  them  tarnal  revenoors  ez 
be  always  a-huntin  yuh  down  —  damn'  em !  —  An 
lonesome  —  God  Almighty!  how  lonesome  't  be, 
Lindy!  kem  times  whenst  yuh  can't  stand  't  any 
longer  —  whenst  yuh  don't  keer  whether  they  get 
yer  —  or  not.  —  An  the  hants !  —  the  hants ! 
Lindy,"  his  voice  sinking  to  a  hoarse  whisper.  "A 
feller,  he  gets  to  a-seein  things !  —  a-seein  things  —  " 
he  reiterated,  his  gaze  wild.  "Reckon  I  been  mis'ble 
like  —  yere  lately ;  mebbe  that  war  hit,"  he  added ; 
and  another  fit  of  coughing  racked  the  poor  frame. 

"But  I  be  feelin  fine,  now,  Lindy  —  just  fine," 
Hass  went  on,  with  a  ghastly  attempt  at  cheerful- 
ness. "An  I  ben't  hongrey,  now  —  I  found  the  sup- 
per out  there,"  indicating  the  kitchen,  "an  if  't 
wuzn't  for  this  pesky  cough  —  " 

Hist !  Carried  on  the  wind  came  a  sound  of 
alarm. 

"They's  after  me,  Lindy  —  they's  after  me!"  Hass 
panted. 


LINDY  LOYD  243 

"Listen  —  "  breathed  the  girl ;  and  in  the  tense 
silence  they  caught  the  echo  of  a  far-away  shout. 

"Oh  —  where  —  where  —  is  there  no  place,  Hass? 
-  the  loft  —  " 

"I  won't  be  caught  like  a  rat  in  a  trap  —  damn 
Jem !"  Hass  exploded. 

Again  the  sound  of  alarm  —  a  peculiar,  long- 
drawn-out  note. 

"The  blood-hounds !  —  Hit  be  the  blood-hounds, 
Lindy  !  God !  —  they's  a-trackin  me !"  and  Hass 
shook  his  clenched  fist,  impotently. 

"Oh,  go !  —  hurry,  Hass  —  hurry !  —  I  will  not 
have  you  caught  —  "  Lindy  urged,  frantically. 

"Lemme  kiss  you-uns  good-by,  then,  Lindy  —  on 
yer  mouth!"  Hass  demanded.  "I  never  have  kissed 
you-uns  that  a-ways,  yet !  —  never  —  not  once!" 

"Oh,  Hass  —  do  you  have  to?"  breathed  the  girl, 
shrinking  in  dismay. 

"I  will  kiss  you-uns,  Lindy  —  I  will  —  I  say !  —  I 
have  the  right  —  " 

But  Lindy  made  no  reply  —  her  staring  eyes  fixed 
upon  his. 

"Lindy  —  leetle  Lindy  —  not  yet  ?  —  yuh  won't 
kiss  me,  yet?"  Hass  cried,  despair  and  anger  in  his 
voice.  "Well  —  then  —  lemme  kiss  yuh  there!  — 
right  there!  —  I  never  see  anything  so  white  an 
purty,"  indicating  the  girl's  throat. 

Lindy  lay,  mute. 

"I  will  then  —  Lindy !  —  I  will  —  I  will !  —  /  have 
the  right  —  /  say!"  And  Hass  laid  his  hot  lips 


244  LINDY  LOYD 

against  the  soft,  white  body  —  then  rushed  out  into 
the  darkness. 

The  force  of  the  wind  had  somewhat  abated  and  the 
rain  was  beginning  to  fall  as  Hass,  alert  to  those  ter- 
rible sounds  of  pursuit,  started  back  up  the  mountain. 

Well  —  the  rain  was  a  good  thing,  he  reflected.  It 
would  help  obliterate  his  tracks.  It  was  cool,  too ; 
and  he  turned  his  hot  face  to  the  sky. 

Hass  had  no  clear  recollection  of  the  painful  path 
so  recently  traversed.  At  the  best,  it  must  have 
been  a  rambling  one  —  difficult  for  even  the  keen 
scent  of  the  bloodhound  to  follow  —  and  there  were 
dim,  indistinct  memories  of  many  crossings  of  the 
brook ;  Well  —  he  certainly  must  have  wandered,  un- 
necessarily. And  the  poor  outcast,  stupefied  with 
fever,  weary,  sick  unto  death,  staggered  on  through 
the  darkness  not  so  much  alarmed,  now  that  he  was 
out  in  the  open  —  under  God's  sky. 

"Lindy  —  leetle  Lindy  —  how  purty  she  be,"  he 
muttered,  his  thoughts  reverting  to  the  dominant 
passion  of  his  life.  "An  she  keered  —  Lindy  keered ; 
—  she  war  moughty  afeerd  they-alls'd  find  me,"  hug- 
ging the  remembrance  to  his  starved  heart.  "An  she 
be  mine !  —  Lindy  be  mine  —  "  he  cried  as  he  strug- 
gled on,  his  eyes  wide  and  staring.  How  tired  he  was. 
It  seemed  as  if  he  could  not  drag  himself  one  step 
farther ;  —  then  this  terrible  weakness ;  and  Hass 
contended  with  another  attack. 


LINDY  LOYD  245 

Again  the  dogs  gave  tongue  —  nearer  now. 

"Dad-burn  them  hounds !  —  Reckon  they'll  get  me 
yet !"  he  panted,  recalled  to  the  present.  "Where  be 
I  —  anyways  ?"  and  shivering  with  fright,  the  poor 
hunted  creature  clung  desperately  to  the  friendly 
support  of  a  tree  and  gazed  confusedly  about. 

"Damn  —  if  I  ben't  a-goin  torrards  hum,"  he  mut- 
tered. "That  —  that  light  up  there  —  hit  sure  be 
Mammy's  —  Wonder  if  she  be  a-spectin  me?  —  Well 

—  I    be    dog-tired  —  reckon    I'll    get    on    hum    an 
into  baid";  and  with  his  worn  face  upturned  to  the 
beacon  —  delirious,  trembling  with  fatigue  and  ill- 
ness, Hass  stumbled  along  the  familiar  trail. 

Again  those  ominous  sounds  —  nearer,  and  yet 
more  near. 

"Blarst  'em !  gasped  the  poor  wretch,  "them  dawgs 

—  they's   out   after   somebody  —  I    can't    'pear   to 
'member ;  —  mebbe  —  mebbe  I'd  better  take  to  the 
water  again."     And  with  the  strength  of  delirium 
Hass  pursued  his  difficult  way  up  the  bed  of  the 
brook. 

"Reckon  Mammy,  she  knowed  I  wuz  a-kemin  —  " 
he  mumbled,  his  eyes  glued  upon  the  light.  "God  — 
Almighty  —  if  I  could  —  get  there  —  "  he  panted. 
Presently  Hass  left  the  brook  and  fought  his  way 
on  up  the  trail. 

Meanwhile  within  the  cabin,  all  was  in  readiness 
for  Hass's  coming. 

Unable  to  sleep,  her  heart  with  her  desolate,  erring 


246  LINDY  LOYD 

boy,  Mrs.  Hicks  had  flung  herself,  dressed,  upon  her 
bed  and  lay  listening  to  the  fury  of  the  storm  —  each 
separate  blast  as  it  struck  the  cabin  weighted  with 
fear  for  his  welfare. 

Lying  alone  in  the  darkness,  keenly  alert  to  the 
sounds  of  the  night,  she  had  heard  the  first  bay  of 
the  hounds  and  knew,  immediately,  that  some  poor 
fugitive  was  abroad  upon  the  mountains. 

"Hit  be  Hass !  —  an  he  be  a-kemin  down !"  she 
cried,  with  a  mother's  intuition;  and  rising  quickly 
from  her  bed  Mrs.  Hicks  made  ready  to  receive  the 
wanderer.  Placing  a  light  in  each  window,  she  re- 
plenished the  fire,  prepared  food  and  entering  the 
inner  room  turned  back  the  covering  of  his  bed  — 
upon  her  lips  the  constant  petition :  "God  Almighty, 
send  he  can  die  in  his  baid  —  send  he  can  die  in  his 
baid  —  "  Having  finished  her  preparations,  Mrs. 
Hicks  steeled  herself  to  listen  and  to  wait. 

Again  the  deep  note  of  the  hounds  was  carried  on 
the  gale. 

"He  be  most  yere  —  now,"  she  whispered,  peering 
out  into  the  night.  "Ah  —  God  Almighty !"  —  and 
Hass  fell,  exhausted,  across  the  threshold. 

Quickly  her  arms  were  about  him.  Half  dragging, 
half  lifting,  Mrs.  Hicks  carried  the  emaciated  form 
into  the  inner  room  and  laid  him  upon  his  bed. 

"Mammy  —  don't  let  —  "  he  gasped,  horror  in  his 
eyes. 

"No  —  I  won't,  Hass  —  I  won't,"  soothed  his 
mother,  grimly,  her  firm  clasp  on  his. 


LINDY  LOYD  247 

With  the  implicit  faith  of  childhood  days,  Mass's 
head  fell  back  upon  his  pillow.  "Mammy  —  Mammy 
—  I've  kem  —  "  he  breathed.  And  the  stormy,  tem- 
pest-tossed soul  passed  out  into  the  night. 

"God  Almighty,  I  thank  Thee  —  I  thank  Thee," 
murmured  Mrs.  Hicks,  folding  the  hands  above  the 
pulseless  breast. 

Presently  Mrs.  Hicks  passed  into  the  outer  room. 
Closing  the  door  upon  her  dead  she  seated  herself  to 
await  the  arrival  of  the  officers  of  the  law. 

She  had  not  long  to  wait.  Soon  the  eager  dogs 
were  clamoring  before  the  cabin.  With  a  brutal  kick 
the  door  flew  wide  and  two  men,  their  guns  leveled, 
rushed  inside. 

"Where  is  he?"  they  demanded  —  their  eyes 
searching  the  place. 

But  the  woman  crouching  before  the  fire  gave  no 
slightest  recognition  of  their  presence. 

"We-alls  tracked  him  in  here  —  you  might  as  well 
give  him  up  —  "  cried  one,  his  hand  heavy  upon  the 
shoulder  of  the  unresponsive  woman.  "Is  he  in  yon?" 
indicating  the  inner  room. 

But  he  might  with  equal  success  have  addressed  a 
stone  image. 

"Watch  out !  —  we-alls'll  get  potted!"  they 
muttered  stealing  warily  towards  the  closed  door. 
Bursting  it  open,  they  sprang  into  the  middle 
of  the  room,  their  weapons  pointed  at  its  inmate. 
"Hands  up  —  we-ve  got  ye  covered  — "  they 
shouted. 


248  LINDY   LOYD 

But  there  came  no  response  from  the  quiet  figure 
upon  the  bed. 

"Dead?" 

"Dead !  —  he  has  given  we-alls  the  slip."  And  fol- 
lowed by  the  burning,  contemptuous  gaze  of  the 
woman  before  the  hearth,  the  two  slunk  quickly 
from  the  cabin. 


CHAPTER     XXXVII 

SPRING  had  come  and  the  song  of  life  and  of 
love  was  again  heard.  The  breezes  whispered 
it,  the  merry  brooks,  released  from  icy  confines, 
chattered  it,  countless  bird-throats  sang  it,  all  na- 
ture thrilled  with  it. 

Up  from  the  ground  rushed  the  sap  and  the  trees 
sprang  immediately  into  life.  To  the  farthest  limit 
swept  the  quickening  fluid  —  and  soon  the  bare, 
skeleton-like  branches  shook  forth  the  tender  baby- 
leaves  and  the  feathery  blossoms. 

The  forest  speedily  became  carpeted  with  a  prodi- 
gality of  growth,  countless  blooms  appeared  and  the 
delicate  odor  of  the  trailing-arbutus  arose.  Soon, 
upon  every  side,  were  massed  the  pink  and  white 
blossoms  of  the  sweet-briar  and  wild  azalea,  the  dog- 
wood and  the  Judas-tree ;  the  soft  winds  came  laden 
with  perfume  and  every  breath  was  a  delight. 

The  pairing,  building  and  home-making  season, 
too,  had  arrived  and  from  many  a  secret  place  bright 
eyes  peered  forth ;  birds  were  rioting  in  the  thickets 
and  every  winged  thing  was  astir. 

Lindy,  too,  heard  the  glad  spring-song  —  with  its 
promise  of  joyful  fulfillment  and  the  youth  within 

249 


250  LINDY  LOYD 

her  responded  to  the  call.  With  renewed  strength  of 
body  she  roamed  the  hills,  revisiting  old  haunts,  all 
her  splendid  strength  of  purpose  doing  battle  with 
the  sorrow  that  had  darkened  her  life. 

But  there  was  one  place  unvisited.  Lindy  had  not 
been  to  the  old  camp  since  the  occasion  that  wit- 
nessed the  separation  between  herself  and  Hugh 
Humphreys  ;  and  now  that  spring  was  calling  —  call- 
ing —  the  custom  of  her  life  —  or  was  it  a  more 
tender  demand  —  urged  her  thither.  Well  —  she 
would  go  to  the  old  camp,  she  meditated  —  and  the 
girl  set  her  lips  firmly.  It  would  be  a  test  of  her 
courage.  Perhaps,  if  she  could  see  again  the  place 
so  especially  associated  with  her  lost  happiness,  her 
persistent  heart-hunger  might  be  somewhat  allayed; 
—  she  might,  in  a  measure,  at  least,  be  able  to  put 
away  the  haunting  memories.  So  she  reasoned. 

It  may  have  been  the  terrible  circumstances  sur- 
rounding the  girl's  awakening  from  love's  dream  — 
circumstances  so  abnormal,  so  cruel,  so  entirely  with- 
out consent  upon  either  side  —  that  made  its  up- 
rooting appear  so  impossible  a  thing ;  and  that  Lindy 
should  hold  Hugh's  memory  in  tender  regard  was, 
under  the  circumstances,  perhaps,  inevitable.  But 
there  came  times  —  cruel,  bitter  times  —  when,  in 
spite  of  strenuous  efforts  to  the  contrary,  the  girl's 
whole  soul  cried  out  for  Hugh  —  her  lover,  Hugh! 
torn  so  ruthlessly  from  her. 

That  Hugh  had  married  Miss  Lucie  Simmons,  the 


LINDY  LOYD  251 

two  immediately  sailing  abroad  for  a  term  of  years, 
had  long  since  come  to  Lindy's  knowledge;  and 
since  the  marriage,  a  number  of  instances  pointing  to 
Miss  Lucie's  love  for  Hugh  had  recurred  to  her 
memory.  But  there  remained  no  bitterness  in  Lindy's 
heart  towards  Miss  Lucie  —  and  of  Hugh's  love  for 
herself  she  was  perfectly  assured.  Rather  had  they 
been  entangled  in  a  chain  of  unprecedented  circum- 
stances certainly  emanating  from  the  evil  one. 
Of  Hass  Hicks,  as  the  instrument  in  his  hands 
and  the  author  of  the  calamity  that  had  overtaken 
her  —  Lindy  thought  with  a  shuddering  horror,  mit- 
igated by  the  pitiful  conditions  of  his  death. 

In  any  case,  Hugh  had  passed  out  of  her  life ;  and 
it  was  her  duty  —  to  say  the  least  —  to  accept  the 
situation.  If  she  were  unable  to  do  this  —  if  she 
were  so  pitiful  a  thing  as  to  persist  in  an  undying 
affection  for  the  husband  of  another  — then,  such 
weakness  must  be  hidden.  Besides,  there  were  other 
duties  to  be  considered :  —  the  cheer  and  comfort  of 
those  within  her  home ;  —  of  Daddy,  for  instance, 
whose  dear  eyes  followed  her  so  solicitously. 

So  reasoned  Lindy;  and  except  for  a  certain 
womanly  quietness  of  demeanor,  the  girl,  to  general 
appearance,  was  herself  again  —  her  merry  laugh 
ringing  out  as  of  yore ;  and  if  at  times  it  carried  an 
uncertain  note,  none  guessed  at  the  cause. 

Within  her  home,  however,  an  occasional  absorp- 
tion of  manner,  together  with  an  unconscious  sad- 


252  LINDY  LOYD 

ness,  evidenced  to  watchful  eyes  that  the  battle  was 
not  yet  entirely  won;  and  beholding,  Mitry  cursed, 
silently. 

"Hit  do  plum'  beat  all,  Brackie,  how  yer  garden- 
patch,  hit  be  a-kemin  on !"  cried  Joan,  coming  down 
the  path.  "Hit  must  have  moughty  good  care." 

Mrs.  Hicks  was  down  on  her  knees,  weeding. 
"  'Pears  like  I  have  to  keep  myself  a-goin',  these  yere 
days,"  she  replied,  turning  her  heated  face  to  Joan. 
"If  so  be  I  can  go  to  baid  dog-tired  at  night,  I  be 
more  likely  to  sleep ;  —  don't  have  to  lay  awake  an 
think  —  'bout  things,"  she  added. 

"Yep  —  I  know,  Brackie,"  was  the  sympathetic 
rejoinder. 

"Where  you-uns  been,  Joan?" 

"Down  to  Dark  Holler." 

"You  have?  —  what'd  yuh  heern  tell?" 

"Nuthin  of  any  'count ;  —  but  I  see  sumpin, 
Brackie." 

Mrs.  Hicks  sat  back  upon  her  heels,  her  face  up- 
lifted —  "Well  —  " 

"I  see  the  last  of  Mandy  Pegg !  —  the  very  last, 
Brackie,  She  have  gone  —  'bag  and  baggage.' ' 

"Huh !  —  she  have  gone !  —  Well  —  I  ain't  said  ez 
I  war  glad,  Joan,  but  this  yere  be  a  quiet  neighbor- 
hood an  Mandy  Pegg,  she  wan't  like  our  folkses,  yere 
on  the  mountain  —  yuh  knows  that." 

"Yep  —  I  know  't." 


LINDY  LOYD  253 

"Kem  on  in,  Joan";  and  Mrs.  Hicks  having 
reached  the  end  of  the  row,  rose  laborously  to  her 
feet  and  led  the  way  into  the  cabin.  "Hit  beat  all 
how  stiff  a  body  do  get,"  she  muttered.  "An  yuh 
didn't  see  anybody  —  nor  heern  tell  nuthin  't  all, 
Joan?"  she  went  on,  querulously. 

"Nope  —  " 

"Well  —  if  yuh  ben't  the  greatest  —  " 

"  'Spose  I  can't  get  no  news  if  there  ben't  none," 
flared  Joan ;  and  silence  fell. 

"I  war  over  to  Si  Etter's  this  mornin,"  Mrs.  Hicks 
began,  presently.  "Si,  he's  a  moughty  sick  man, 
Joan." 

"Mitry,  he's  a-goin  over  there  again  to-night," 
Joan  replied. 

"The  neighbors,  they's  sure  moughty  good  'bout 
a-helpin,  but  Si  Etter  —  well  —  he's  a-needin  some- 
body there  all  the  time,  now ;  —  some  wumman  es 
could  stay  —  Joan" ;  with  a  quick  glance  at  her 
companion. 

But  Joan  made  no  response. 

Presently  Mrs.  Hicks  began  again:  "Pears  like 
Hite  Cronce,  he  air  a-goin  to  drive  for  the  hotel,  this 
summer  in  the  place  of  that  doctor  feller;  —  the 
one  ez  uster  kem  up  the  mountain  to  see  Lindy." 

"Is  he?"  nonchalantly. 

"An  I  spose  Lindy,  she'll  be  a-carryin  berries  an 
sich  down  to  the  hotel  —  just  like  she  did  last  sum- 
mer, Joan?" 


254  LINDY  LOYD 

"Mebbe." 

"Things  be  moughty  different,  this  summer,"  per- 
sisted Mrs.  Hicks.  "Lindy,  she'll  miss  that  cripple- 
wumman  —  for  one,  Joan.  Queer  —  wan't  't  —  her 
gettin  jined  to  the  doctor  feller?"  and  Mrs.  Hicks 
eyed  Joan,  sharply. 

But  Joan  remained  perfectly  non-committal. 

"Pears  like  the  cripple-wumman,  she  have  died  in 
f urrin  parts  —  yere,  last  winter ;  an  'er  husband,  he 
be  a-bringin  her  body  hum  to  bury  't ;  —  some- 
wheres  in  Alabamy.  Hit  war  Hite  ez  war  a-tellin  't. 
Pore  Hass  —  he  war  dretful  fond  of  Lindy,"  Mrs. 
Hicks  added,  irrelevantly. 

Time  went  on  —  the  fever  raged  and  Si's  life  ap- 
peared to  be  drawing  to  a  close.  He  did  not  lack 
for  care  and  attention  either  by  night  or  by  day; 
sympathy,  help  and  experimental  knowledge  in  deal- 
ing with  sickness  being  freely  extended  by  the  kindly 
mountaineers.  But  there  came  a  time,  when,  the 
fever  broken,  Si  lay  exhausted  and  perfectly  apa- 
thetic upon  his  bed ;  and  those  most  interested  — 
their  well-meant  attempts  to  awaken  his  renewed  in- 
terest in  life  continuing  unsuccessful  —  were  at  their 
wit's  end. 

"Hit  be  just  this  a-ways,"  declared  Rufus  Kane 
to  Mrs.  Hicks  and  Mitry  —  standing  outside  Si's 
cabin  in  the  early  morning  —  "That  feller  in  there, 
he  don't  give  a  hang  whether  he  lives  or  dies ;  —  an 


LINDY  LOYD  255 

that  bein  the  case  —  well  —  hit  looks  plum'  bad  for 
'im." 

"Yep  —  hit  looks  that  a-ways,"  Mitry  agreed. 

"Now,  if  Si  —  he  had  sumpin  or  somebody 
to  spunk  up  for  —  some  wumman,  now,  ez  keered  a 
leetle,"  Rufe  went  on,  "but  shucks !  —  what  have  the 
pore  feller  got  —  anyways  —  a-livin  yere  all  alone? 

—  nuthin  't  all  for  comfort  —  ez  I  can  see." 

"Yep  —  if  there  only  war  somebody  ez  keered  a 
leetle,"  Mrs.  Hicks  reiterated,  "Si,  he  just  lays  there 

—  don't  say  nuthin  't  all,  but  every  time  that  door 
of  his  opens,  his  eyes,  they  open  too  an  they  travel 
right  there  —  yep  —  right  there!  for  all  the  world 
ez  if  he  war  a-watchin  for  somebody  to  kem  —  like. 
An  onct  he  axed  me  who  't  war  out  there  in  the 
kitchen." 

"He  did  ax  that?"  Rufe  exclaimed. 

"He  did  —  an  Lissy  Aller,  she  have  spoke  'bout 
Si's  a-watchin  the  door  —  so.  She  axed  me  did  Si 
have  any  folkses  he  war  a-spectin." 

"Huh!" 

"Mebbe  —  mebbe  now  —  there  mought  be  such  a 
wumman  somewhere  'round  —  orter  to  be,  any- 
ways," Mrs.  Hicks  went  on  with  a  glance  at  Mitry, 
"an  mebbe  Si,  he's  a-wishin  an  a-listenin  for  that 
wumman  to  kem ;  hit  mought  be  —  hit  mought  be." 

"Do  you-uns  know  of  any  such  a  wumman?"  Mitry 
demanded,  suddenly. 

"I  ain't  said  ez  I  do,  Mitry,"  Mrs.  Hicks  evaded. 


256  LINDY  LOYD 

"Well  —  wumman  or  no  wumman,  if  Si,  he  don't 
spunk  up  purty  soon,  now,  he'll  just  nacherly  die !  — 
an  that's  all  there  be  to  *t,"  declared  Rufe.  "Be  yuh 
a-kemin  over  yere  to  set  up  to-night,  Mitry?"  Re- 
ceiving Mitry's  affirmative,  Rufe  went  on  his  way. 

"Better  get  Si's  basket  ready,  Joan,"  advised 
Mitry  at  the  end  of  the  day ;  and  knocking  the  ashes 
from  his  pipe  he  prepared  to  take  the  trail. 

"Hit's  queer,  Si,  he  don't  get  along  faster,  Mitry 
—  now  that  the  fever,  hit  be  broke,"  Joan  remarked 
as  she  lifted  the  savory  broth  from  the  fire  and  placed 
it  within  the  basket.  Brackie,  she  says  he  just  lays 
there  so  still-like  —  don't  'pear  to  keer  none  'bout 
nuthin  nor  nobody." 

"Joan,"  Mitry  demanded,  turning  sharply  towards 
her,  "have  yuh  been  in  to  see  Si?" 

"Eh  —  what  —  me?  —  well  —  not  in  to  see  'im 
'zactly,  Mitry,"  Joan  replied,  her  startled  eyes 
upon  his,  "but  I've  been  over  there  every  day 
a-takin  'im  things  —  an  —  an  I  see  'im  through  the 
door  —  onct.  Reckon  Si,  he  haven't  axed  for  me," 
she  concluded. 

"I  think  you-uns  had  better  not  wait  for  Si  to  ax 
for  yuh.  I  think  yuh  had  better  go  in  —  Joan," 
Mitry  urged,  significantly. 

"Why  —  Mitry?"  and  Joan's  face  was  desperate. 

"  'Kez  I  think  Si  Etter,  he  be  a-goin  to  die,  Joan. 
He  certainly  will  —  unless  he  can  make  up  his  mind 
to  live  —  that's  sure !  —  an  I  don't  know  ez  that 


LINDY  LOYD  257 

could  save  'im,  now.  Joan"  —  and  Mitry's  eyes 
arraigned  hers  —  "Si,  he  be  a-dyin  just  kez  he  ain't 
a-keerin  none  to  live.  That  be  hit.  Just  kez  he  ain't 
a-keerin  none  to  live,"  he  reiterated,  impressively. 

Joan  went  white.  "Why  ben't  Si  Etter  a-keerin 
none  to  live,  Mitry?" 

"That's  'zactly  what  I  don't  know.  Do  you-uns 
know  —  Joan?"  Mitry  demanded,  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
hers. 

"Oh  —  I  don't  know,  —  Mitry"  —  and  Joan's 
face  was  ashen.  "Dear  God !  —  hit  war  so  long 
ago-" 

"You-uns  never  have  told  me  what  't  war  ez  got 
up  'twixt  yuh  an  Si  —  an  I  never  have  axed,"  Mitry 
went  on.  "But  if  so  be  you-uns  could  fix  't  up  —  why 

—  yuh'd  better  do  't,  Joan,  yuTi'd  better  do  '£,"  he 
reiterated,  gravely.    "Si  Etter,  he  be  a  turrible  sick 
feller;  hit  mought  make  't  a  leetle  easier  for  you- 
uns  —  afterwards  —  mebbe."     And  taking  his  bas- 
ket, Mitry  departed. 

"So  that  be  hit,"  muttered  Joan,  standing  wide- 
eyed  and  white-lipped  in  the  kitchen.  "Si  he  be 
a-dyin  —  just  kez  he  ain't  a-keerin  none  to  live  —  " 

Slowly,  mechanically,  Joan  proceeded  with  her 
work.  Presently,  having  finished  her  preparations 
for  the  night,  she  crept  into  bed. 

"  'Kez  he  ain't  a-keerin  none  to  live ! — ain't  a-keerin 

—  ain't  a-keerin  —  "  the  night  rang  with  the  pitiful 
refrain.     Lying  alone  in  the  darkness,  Joan  com- 


258  LINDY  LOYD 

muned  with  her  own  heart,  and  pride,  that  root  sin 
of  human  nature,  became  clearly  revealed;  stripped 
of  all  subterfuge  it  stood  forth  in  its  nakedness,  its 
hideous  deformity.  Ah  yes !  —  it  had  been  pride  — 
a  foolish  unwillingness  to  acknowledge  having  been 
in  the  wrong  —  that  was  responsible  for  the  ruin  of 
their  two  lives ;  and  face  to  face  with  the  probable 
outcome  of  Si's  illness,  the  miserable  details  of  their 
alienation  shrank  into  mere  nothingness. 

Joan  had  always  felt  assured  of  Si's  heart-loyalty 
to  herself.  During  all  the  troublous,  wrecked  years 
of  the  past,  he  had  been  crying  out  for  her  —  for 
her;  she  knew  it  —  knew  it  perfectly.  And  now, 
sick  unto  death,  he  still  longed  for  her  —  needed  her. 
"  'Kez  he  ain't  a-keerin  none  to  live  —  ain't  a-keerin 
—  ain't  a-keerin  —  "  again  that  endless  refrain. 

Mitry  had  said  that  Si  would  die.  Dear  God !  — 
perhaps  he  might  already  be  gone.  Oh  —  how 
heartless  —  how  cruel  she  had  been !  —  she  would  go 
to  him;  if  not  too  late,  she  would  beg  him  to  stay. 

Panic-stricken,  Joan  hurried  out  into  the  night 
and  soon,  remorse  lending  wings  to  her  feet,  lifted  the 
latch  of  Si's  cabin. 

"Mitry  —  be  Si  —  be  he  —  he  ben't  —  "  she 
panted,  apprehension  in  her  eyes. 

"Go  on  in  —  Joan,"  Mitry  replied ;  and  entering 
the  inner  room  Joan  stood  by  the  quiet  form. 

Ah  —  was  he  still  alive?  —  so  still  he  lay  —  so 
white  —  and  Joan,  deadly  fear  clutching  at  her 
heart,  bent  nearer. 


LINDY  LOYD  259 

As  if  conscious  of  her  presence,  Si's  eyes  suddenly 
flew  wide. 

"Joan  —  Joan  —  yuh  have  kem  —  "  he  breathed. 

"Yep  —  I  have  kem ;  —  an  I  be  a-goin  to  stay  — 
Si,"  Joan  added,  her  hand  in  his. 

Into  the  worn  face  came  a  look  of  utter  peace  — 
and  the  long  estrangement  was  over. 


CHAPTER     XXXVIII 

JUNE  came  again.  June  —  with  its  soft  winds 
and  blue  sky.  June  —  with  its  associations  and 
memories. 

Lindy  came  out  upon  the  porch  and  stood  for  a 
moment,  her  eyes  following  the  familiar  trail  down 
the  mountain.  "I  said  I  would  come  —  and  I  am 
going,"  she  murmured. 

It  was  the  anniversary  of  her  betrothal  to  Hugh 
Humphreys  and  Lindy  was  going  to  the  old  camp 

—  a  spot  as  yet  unvisited.     Yes,  she  meditatel  — 
foolish,  sentimental,  perhaps  even  wicked  —  still  — 
she  was  going. 

And  Lindy  had  known  all  along  that  she  would 
go  when  the  time  came.  All  the  reasoning  she 
could  bring  to  the  contrary  —  and  the  girl  had  been 
perfectly  sincere  in  her  strivings  —  all  the  scorn,  the 
lashings  of  conscience  —  all  —  had  proved  to  be  en- 
tirely futile.  She  was  going  to  keep  the  anni- 
versary. 

Those  terrible  restrictions  that  Hass  had  imposed, 

—  restrictions  she  had  been  unable  to  mitigate  by 
even  so  much   as   one  word   of  explanation  —  her 
seemingly  harsh  treatment  of  Hugh,  her  ignoring  of 
his  claims  upon  her,  all,  had  been  a  source  of  lasting 

260 


LINDY  LOYD  261 

regret  to  Lindy.  If  she  should  see  Hugh,  she  could 
explain  —  now ;  oh,  yes !  —  and  she  could  recover  her 
self-respect  in  the  matter,  which,  in  a  measure, 
she  felt  to  have  been  forfeited.  If  Hugh  should  be 
there  — 

But  how  could  Hugh  be  there?  He  could  not. 
Hugh  was  abroad  —  had  gone  to  remain  for  a  term 
of  years.  Besides,  he  ought  not  to  be  there.  Again 
the  same  line  of  reasoning  —  of  fruitless  upbraiding. 
Oh  —  was  ever  love  so  wickedly  persistent? 

Well  —  it  was  no  doubt  altogether  foolish,  but  in 
spite  of  all  reason  the  determination  to  keep  the  ap- 
pointment had  only  strengthened  —  and  she  was  go- 
ing. Going  at  the  hour  agreed  upon  —  and  she 
would  give  the  whippoorwill's  call. 

The  old  camp  thrilled  with  life  this  wonderful  June 
day ;  it  thrilled,  too,  with  memories  of  Lindy  — 
of  Lindy!  and  the  man  beside  the  brook  surrendered 
himself  to  the  thronging  memories. 

Hugh  had  made  no  secret  of  his  wrecked  hopes,  — 
of  his  hurt,  in  offering  Miss  Lucie  Simmons  his  care 
and  devotion.  Convinced  of  his  sincerity  she  ac- 
cepted his  frank  statement  of  the  situation  and  they 
were  married. 

"Hugh,"  she  cried,  "a  greater  woman  than  I 
would  refuse  your  proffered  devotion.  But  —  but 
I  cannot,  Hugh,  I  cannot.  It  will  be  but  for  a  short 
time  —  now  —  I  have  had  renewed  assurance  of  that. 


262  LINDY  LOYD 

And  —  and  I  am  so  terribly  lonesome,  Hugh !  Dear 
God !  —  you  can  never  know  how  lonely  —  "  and 
Miss  Lucie's  eyes  said  the  rest.  As  Hugh  dwelt 
upon  the  past  there  were  only  tender  memories  of 
the  sweet  woman  whose  love  had  entered  his  life. 

As  Hugh  waited  beside  the  brook  there  suddenly 
boomed  forth  the  big  bass  "brr-oom  —  brr-oom  —  " 
of  a  great  frog,  answered  immediately  by  a  tiny  pipe 
near  by ;  and  instantly  a  chorus  of  voices,  great  and 
small,  arose  —  and  as  suddenly  died  away. 

A  snake  slipped  stealthily  into  the  water  and 
headed  up  stream,  his  destination  an  opening  under 
a  big,  overhanging  stump. 

From  a  hole  in  the  opposite  bank  a  musk-rat 
thrust  forth  his  head  sniffing  the  air,  his  small  eyes 
roving,  warily.  Catching  sight  of  Hugh,  he  vanished. 

Beneath  the  stones  the  "googlies"  lay,  hidden. 
Within  the  cool  depth  and  shadow  of  a  great  rock 
swarms  of  fish  were  playing ;  —  and  with  a  flash  of 
white  a  kingfisher  swooped  with  unerring  aim,  then 
back  to  the  limb  above  —  his  helpless  prey  dangling 
from  his  beak. 

Farther  down  the  brook,  motionless  as  the  stone 
upon  which  he  stood,  a  stately  heron  was  fishing. 
Soon  he,  too,  flew  away  with  a  luckless  victim. 

Blind  to  the  exceeding  beauty  of  the  place  and 
hour,  deaf  to  the  appeal  of  the  woods-life,  intent 
only  upon  the  sad  travesty  before  her,  the  girl  upon 
the  trail  came  swiftly  on. 


LINDY   LOYD  263 

Straight  to  the  old  pine  went  Lindy.  Flinging 
her  arms  about  its  sturdy  trunk  she  leaned  her  soft 
cheek  against  it  and  remained  motionless. 

Presently  she  loosened  her  clasp  and  stood  —  her 
unseeing  eyes  fixed  upon  the  distance  —  and  the 
mournful  call  floated  unfalteringly  forth:  "Whip- 
poor-will  —  whip-poor-will  —  whip-poor-will  —  " 

"Whip-poor-will  —  whip-poor-will  —  whip-poor- 
will"  came  the  joyous  response  —  and  Lindy  was 
clasped  in  Hugh's  arms. 


THE  END 


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